John Creasey - Alibi
Roger had no time to change his expression, which froze into a set grin as Coppell slammed the door behind him.
“You’ve got a hell of a lot to be happy about,” he growled. “I expected you to be in tears.”
There wasn’t any doubt about Coppell’s mood; he was out for blood. And there wasn’t the slightest point in answering back in the same tone. The best way to answer Coppell was earnestly.
“What should I be crying about, sir?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
Roger hesitated, rounded his desk, and pushed a chair into position so that Coppell could sit down. But Coppell preferred to grip the back of the wooden armchair, in much the same way as Rapelli had gripped the rail of the dock that morning. His heavy jowl looked fuller than usual, his mouth was tightly set, his deepset eyes sparked with irritation.
Roger stood behind his desk.
“I’ve drawn four blanks today,” he observed. “But some days are like that.”
“When you can spare a minute,” Coppell said with heavy sarcasm, “you might tell me what cases went sour on you, and why. You can begin with Rapelli’s arrest. From where
I stand, it was bad enough to send Leeminster to arrest and charge him without being sure he was guilty, but why in hell you persisted in the charge, and then committed contempt of court with that crack about him and the witnesses I shall never understand.”
Roger said in a thin voice, “Won’t you, sir?”
“No. What the hell got into you?”
Very slowly and deliberately Roger pushed his swivel chair into position behind his desk and sat down. He had known what he was doing, and Coppell must realise that; to adopt this attitude was to condemn him before he had been heard. For a few moments he was too angry to speak, but losing his temper would serve no purpose. He looked straight into Coppell’s eyes, and schooled his voice to carry a tone of cool respect.
“I might understandably ask you the same question: what has got into you?”
As he spoke, he knew that it had been the wrong moment; that instead of pulling Coppell up sharply into a more reasonable mood it had put him high on his dignity. Out of the blue, as it were, another crisis was upon him; you didn’t force a quarrel with your superior if you wanted to concentrate on the job in hand. And Coppell had a lot of influence in high places, could present him favourably if he wished and nearly damn him if he chose to be malicious.
Just now, he looked as if he hated Roger, and he actually took a long step forward, as if to sweep the younger man aside.
Chapter Three
CONFLICT
Coppell paused.
That he was genuinely angry showed in the glitter in his eyes and the swarthy flush in his cheeks. Roger wondered what was going on in his mind. Was he thinking much as he, Roger, was thinking: that, angry and resentful though he felt, there was no point in pushing a quarrel? They were mature men, very senior officials, and they should have sufficient self-respect and respect for each other to avoid open conflict. His own anger began to fade but Coppell’s apparently remained. Suddenly it dawned on him that Coppell was now in such a towering rage that he could hardly control himself.
So, he made himself say, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Coppell glowered and growled, “What’s that?”
“I said I was sorry, sir.”
Coppell was only five years Roger’s senior in age and service. Everyone who was anyone at the Yard knew that he had been appointed commander because there had been no one else of sufficient experience for the job. Only the discipline of the Yard, the absolute rule that on duty no officer called a senior in rank by his Christian name, and always used the “sir” held Roger steady now, but his heart was thumping and some of his nerves began to quiver. He couldn’t do more.
Oh, grow up, he thought: and he was thinking of himself, not Coppell. He was suddenly aware that in one way Coppell would never grow up, would probably never know true magnanimity. But at least the “sorry” mollified him and his eyes lost their glitter.
Would Coppell rub his nose in the apology?
If he says I should damn well think so, thought Roger in another surge of emotion, I’ll give him my resignation.
Coppell opened his mouth to speak, but before he uttered a word the door of the communicating room with Danizon opened and Danizon himself came in, pushing the door open with his rump. A tray rattled in his hand. Coppell, nearer the door, acted almost mechanically, and held it for the detective sergeant to come through. Danizon must have known that someone was there but not who it was. He grunted “ta” and placed the laden tray on a corner of Roger’s desk. There was tea, hot water, milk, sandwiches thick with meat, bread and butter and some jam.
“Best I could do, sir,” said Danizon, then for the first time saw Roger’s face. He broke off, his expression asking, “What have I done wrong?” Then he glanced round and saw who had held the door open for him.
Out of the blue, Roger had a thought that was almost inspired, and he said, “Fetch another cup for the commander, sergeant.”
“Er—yes sir!” Danizon could not get out of the room quickly enough, and he shot one agonised glance over his shoulder as the door closed on him.
Coppell gave a kind of grin.
“Training him for the canteen?” he asked.
“I missed lunch,” Roger replied, and wondered whether the incident would restore Coppell to a reasonable mood.
“Doing what?” asked Coppell, and then he snorted. “Looking for those other two who were in bed with Rapelli?”
That appealed to him; if he, Roger, went carefully they would be over the worst, although the conflict between them would probably never fade entirely.
Before he could answer, Coppell snorted again.
“Well, let’s hear more. You wouldn’t stick your neck out unless you had a reason, even if a bloody bad reason. The Home Office is on the warpath, so your explanation had better be good.”
Roger’s heart dropped.
“There’s been a lot of cannabis and some heroin pushed in and around Doons Way, which is a short street with some small clubs and a lot of noise,” he stated. “I thought that the man Rapelli was involved. I was afraid that if Rapelli was out on bail he himself might be attacked next.”
“You just thought,” breathed Coppell.
“I also knew that some of the clubs stage occasional sex orgies in the upper rooms and that this witness—Dunster —runs around with some pretty funny people. All-in all, I decided it was worth letting the witness and her counsel and the court know what I knew. And I gambled on Gunn letting it pass with an apology.”
“Just as you gambled on quietening me down with one,” Coppell said.
Then Danizon came in with a cup and saucer, looking almost pleadingly at Roger for approbation. Roger took the cup and saucer.
“Thanks. Oh, sergeant—has Mid-Western Division called?”
“Not—not lately, sir.”
“If anyone calls from there, put the call through to me.”
“Right, sir !” Danizon backed out with obvious relief, and Roger began to pour tea. At least he knew that Coppell liked his strong, with plenty of sugar.
“We’ve so much drug pushing going on I think the gamble was worth it. But I can’t see Rachel Warrender defending anyone involved in drugs. I think the alibi was a phoney,” he went on, “but I’m not sure drugs are the trouble. I am sure Rapelli’s terrified.”
“There are orgies,” Coppell pointed out. “The alibi could be genuine.”
“Yes, indeed.” Roger handed him a cup of tea and held out the sugar bowl. “But if the Dunster girl is telling the truth, then two witnesses that I have, who swear they saw Rapelli’s attack on Verdi, are lying. And I don’t think they are.”
“Now I begin to see daylight,” breathed Coppell. “You think the defence was trying to discredit police witnesses in advance?”
“I haven’t the slightest reason to think our witnesses are lying,” Roger replied. “I’ve seen them both after the court hearing. Had to go to a cabinet-making factory in Wandsworth for one and a bakery in Bethnal Green for the other, but their evidence will be all we need. I had to make sure of that, in view of what I’d done in court.”
Coppell gulped down his tea.
“So you’ve some sense. And we’ve two witnesses against Rapelli’s three,” he went on, musingly.
“I can’t imagine any jury believing the sex-party evidence,” said Roger. “The Dunster girl is perfectly capable of that sort of thing, as I said, all the same—” He paused.
Coppell looked at him intently.
“Carry on.”
“Well, sir—” Roger paused again. “The whole thing’s too slick, too convenient for Rapelli, for my liking. The girl’s a thorough bad lot all right, and more than capable of perjuring herself, which was what I meant to show the court when I said what I did. But even though I myself gave it to her on a plate—” Roger smiled ruefully “—I’m just not happy about this alibi.”
Coppell frowned.
“What do you intend doing now?” he asked.
“Well, sir, I’d like to check on who else was supposed to be participating in the fun and games at Maisie Dun- ster’s apartment. I tried this afternoon, in fact, but no one was home. The apartment is in an old house converted into flats or flatlets, and all the tenants seem to work. They were out, anyway. Then I tried to get a line on Rachel Warrender’s recent activities, but drew a blank. Her father is the Member of Parliament and the firm of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender is a very old and reputable one. None of the partners was in and none of the clerks would talk about the girl. I also tried to get a line on Rapelli’s recent movements, and again drew a blank. He says he’s a translator for magazines and publishers of English into Italian and vice versa, but nothing much has turned up about him. I can’t yet prove he’s involved in drugs.” Roger gave a short, rueful grimace. “And when I started out this morning I thought we might really have a line on the drug business, while the case against Rapelli seemed cut and dried. It wasn’t until Rachel Warrender came to see me and threatened to produce her witnesses for Rapelli that things began to misfire.”
Coppell’s eyes rounded.
“She did what?”
“Only half an hour before Rapelli was due in the dock. I went over to the court as soon as I could and arrived just in time. I wanted to make sure Leeminster wasn’t on his own when she arrived. If there was going to be trouble, I wanted to be in the middle of it.”
“You certainly are that,” growled Coppell. “Where are the defence witnesses now?”
“Division is checking up on them,” answered Roger, and I expect word any time.” When Coppell didn’t speak, he went on, “It’s a peculiar case in every way. Ricardo Verdi and some friends were at a small private club, where they have so-called musical evenings—a record club, I gather, with some instrument playing. Division now says there’s no evidence of pot or of anything erotic —the members like off-beat music and go there to enjoy it. Something happened between Rapelli and Verdi and Rapelli struck Verdi over the head with an electric guitar.”
Coppell echoed, “A guitar?”
“A heavy, ornamental one,” confirmed Roger. “I went to see him this afternoon—he’s at the Hampstead Cottage Hospital. The surgeon said that he—Verdi—has an exceptionally thin skull. There is some brain damage and some haemorrhage.”
“What are his chances?” demanded Coppell.
“No more than fifty-fifty,” Roger answered.
“So it might turn out to be a murder charge,” Coppell remarked. “Handsome, if Rapelli did do this job, then we want absolute proof. Absolute, understand. And we won’t have it until you break this alibi, and that means proving that three people are lying. And if they are lying —why? Give me one good reason.”
“To save Rapelli from being convicted,” Roger answered flatly. “Well, if they are lying then I’ll soon find out.”
Coppell frowned.
“You’ve got just seven days.”
“It ought to be enough.”
“If you can’t produce positive evidence that the alibi is phoney by the second hearing, the case will probably be dismissed,” Coppell said, “and that won’t do you any good.”
Until that moment, Roger had been prepared to let the situation ease away, but suddenly anger flared up in him again. There was something very close to a threat, certainly a sneer, in Coppell’s manner and words. He had swung back to his unreasonable, almost bullying manner, and if Roger let it pass then he would always be at Coppell’s mercy. So he schooled himself to ask calmly, “It wouldn’t do me any great harm, surely?”
“Like hell it wouldn’t!”
“I hate to remind you,” said Roger, icily now, “that of the crimes brought to the Yard’s notice in the past four years, over fifty per cent have remained unsolved. Yet barely twenty per cent of those I’ve personally investigated have been unsolved. Aren’t I allowed a failure without being covertly threatened with disciplinary action?”
Coppell turned a dusky turkey-red.
“You’re being bloody-minded,” he rasped. “You may not have a high opinion of me or the Yard’s performance while I’ve been commander, but let me tell you that a lot of people do have a high opinion of me. And you’re the only senior officer around from whom we’ve had any bad publicity.” He clenched his fist and banged it on the folded copy of the Globe. “And that’s the worst kind of publicity.”
He turned on his heel, and strode out; the door slammed behind him.
Roger did not move for some minutes, just sat there like a statue, his face the colour of white marble. His features were set, his full lips drawn very tight, his eyes narrowed beneath the well-shaped brows.
He was not conscious of thought; barely, of feeling. He felt cold, and once or twice a quiver ran through his whole body. A phrase from childhood was the first thought that came into his mind: as if someone were walking over my grave. Slowly, he forced himself to relax, and getting up, he went to the window and looked out at the complex of modern buildings. It was overcast and there was a spit of rain in the air. He opened the window and although the air was cold and damp, he was glad of it. He needed fresh air.
It was several minutes before he went back to the desk, sat down and pulled the Globe towards him. On the front page was the story of a right-wing rally at the Albert Hall, addressed by George Entwhistle, the anti- immigrant M.P., and Sir Roland Warrender, but he did not read these, apart from the headlines. He turned to the article that had so upset Coppell, and read every word closely. A change came over him. This article was slanted—slanted against him and against the police- even to some degree, against the magistrate. One phrase read:
Since when, in British courts, have the police been authorised to speak except under oath?
