John Creasey - Alibi
Since when, in British courts, have the police been authorised to speak except under oath?
Another ran:
Chief Superintendent West is one of the Yard’s most experienced officers. He has a good reputation as a resourceful and often courageous man. What therefore induced him not only to commit such contempt of court but also to imply—as undoubtedly he did imply —that there was some kind of sex orgy taking place at the flat of the young woman who had just given evidence in defence of the accused? We do not like to believe that such a highly placed officer desired to discredit a witness, but the consequence of his remark: “As a point of interest, Miss Dunster, were, the other two witnesses in your bed at the same time?”. . .
Roger read on, slowly.
There were no paragraphs which he could lift out as being, in fact, defamatory, but the whole tenor of the article was critical of the police in general as well as of his handling of this case in particular. At last, he put the paper aside. He had a pressure headache behind the eyes, and a heavy feeling of depression in his breast, like a physical weight. By chance, the paper closed to the front page, and he saw the Entwhistle and Warrender speeches. There was a lead-in by the Globe political correspondent.
Compared with Sir Roland, Mr. Entwhistle’s speech was pure Liberalism, all honey and tolerance. Sir Roland, on the other hand, called again for a Businessman’s Government—and government by decree. There is much in what he says . . .
The ringing of the telephone made Roger start; he let it ring again, picked it up and then announced, “West,” in a very quiet voice.
“Superintendent Cole of North Western is on the line, sir.”
“Ah. Thanks.” The call and the fact that it might bring some good news jolted Roger out of his depression, and he went on, “Blackie?”
“Just one moment, sir,” a man responded. Perhaps it was as well that he had a few moments in which to think. Blackie Cole had charge of a curiously mixed division. Some parts of Hampstead were exclusive and expensive, boasting many of the most opulent homes in London. Others were overcrowded; big, once proud homes had been divided into flats. There and all about the village were “clubs” which were little more than excuses for smoking pot, for sex-parties, for perversion of all kinds. It was most discreetly done, partly because Cole had the district under very tight control. He knew practically everything that went on, when to jump on a “club” which was moving from pot to heroin and other more injurious drugs, when sex-parties were being overdone. He was renowned for his skill in picking out clubs where a number of new “members” from the provinces were starting the pot habit. He raided these and had a remarkable number of successes in sending teenagers back to their homes and away from the temptations of London’s lower night life.
At last, Cole came on the line.
“Sorry to keep you, Handsome. I had a call which might have changed my report but instead it’s strengthened it. I feel very bad that I didn’t have this for you earlier. The Doon Club is quite genuine and wholly free from drugs. I’ve checked on twenty-one of its membership of thirty, and there isn’t a whisper of suspicion. There’s not even any reason to believe that they show obscene movies or slides. All the evidence is that they go to listen to and make music and discuss it afterwards.” Cole paused, only to go on before Roger could speak. “There doesn’t appear so far the slightest motive for Rapelli to attack Verdi, but there is one piece of odd information. The two witnesses of the attack—the men you saw—are new members. They joined at the same time, one day last week. I would have a go at them if I were you: they could be lying.”
Chapter Four
SHOCK
Roger put the telephone down slowly after Cole had rung off. It was pointless to jump to conclusions, but all the time Cole had been talking his depression, only briefly vanquished, came back and grew much heavier. Cole, a shrewd man who was cautious enough seldom to put a foot wrong, made it clear that he thought the police wit-nesses could have lied. And if only one of them could be discredited, then the police case would crash and the alibi witnesses could be triumphant.
Coppell had sensed much of this, of course; that was why he had been incensed by the piece in the Globe. There was nothing surprising in that. With hindsight, the question which had seemed so pertinent in court had been a piece of folly. West gave a funny little laugh. Even Blackie Cole had assumed that he had fallen down on the job; it had not even occurred to him to ask if Roger had seen the two witnesses and checked their story.
Well, he’d seen them both, and it was time he put a report about them on paper.
Wilfred Smithson was a cabinet maker in a small factory near the River Wandle at Wandsworth, a big railway arch, painted green. Roger could picture him, white- aproned, standing at a wooden bench, shavings piled on the bench and about his feet, tools in their racks fitted to the wall. At the far end was a circular saw. All about the arch was stacked timber, some already cut to size. Smithson’s job was very skilled: he made first-quality furniture to customer’s requirements. He earned about thirty pounds in a five-day week, was single, and loved music.
This last was indisputable, for radio music filled the archway, sometimes so loud that it drowned the noise of the band and circular saw, while Smithson had a small tape-recorder on the bench and tiny earphones; he listened to music of his own liking and contrived somehow to blot out the popular tunes from the radio.
Roger could also see him as a small, thin-faced, very lean youth of perhaps twenty-one.
“I’ve never been so surprised in my life. They flew into a temper, swearing at each other in Italian, I think, and Rapelli grabbed Verdi’s guitar and crowned him. Verdi went out like a light.”
Smithson had seemed so transparently honest.
So had Hamish Campbell.
Campbell was a pastry-cook at a large bakery at Bethnal Green, in the East End and right across London from Smithson. He had been in a kitchen leading off the main kitchen, with huge pans of dough, great electric ovens, and everywhere the rich, all-pervading smell of baking and new-baked bread. Campbell had been rolling pastry; another, older man had been operating a machine for cutting the pastry into shapes for tarts; these went on a conveyor and the tarts were carried away and filled by a feed nozzle. Roger could remember, fascinated, how the nozzles disposed different kinds of filling from strawberry jam to lemon curd.
Campbell, plumpish, fair-haired, fresh-faced and freckled, had honest-looking brown eyes.
“Rapelli just snatched the guitar away and biffed Verdi over the head with it—almost as if the music was driving him mad. Blimey I I can hear the bang now—broke the instrument and Verdi’s head.”
“Did Rapelli say anything?” Roger had asked.
“No,” Campbell had answered. “He turned and walked away. I could see Verdi’s head was bleeding something cruel, so I phoned the police and said they needed an ambulance. Wilf—that’s my mate—he gave Verdi some first aid. He’s a carpenter, see, used to people cutting themselves with chisels and saws. He’s got his first-aid certificate. If you ever cut yourself he’s your man.”
The divisional report corroborated the story; division had found Smithson giving capable first aid by padding the wound and stopping the bleeding. He and Campbell had both made statements to the police, and Leeminster, who had been the divisional officer in charge that night, had had no reason to doubt their story.
Roger finished the handwritten report, and felt less anxious and troubled. He rang for Danizon, who came in promptly, looking freshly washed and brushed.
“Have these typed—the usual report copies,” Roger ordered, and added, “no—make it two more than the usual number.”
“Will—er—will the morning do?” asked Danizon.
“Why not this afternoon?” asked Roger, and glanced at his watch. “Good Lord—it’s six-fifteen! Yes, the morning will do. I’ll keep these meanwhile. You get off.” He fore- bore to ask where the sergeant was so anxious to go, put the reports in his brief-case to read at home, and then sat back and reflected over the day. He still could not think of Coppell without a rising sense of indignation, and that in itself was enough to make him disgruntled. He pushed his chair back and was about to get up when his telephone bell rang.
“Superintendent West,” he almost barked.
There was a slight pause before a familiar voice sounded.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Scoop!” Roger exclaimed, and could picture the big face of his elder son, Martin-called-Scoop; and also could imagine the faint smile on it.
“Don’t sound so horrified,” Scoop said, in a rather troubled voice.
“Just surprised!” said Roger. “It must be a year since you called me at the office. I—is everything all right?” he diverged suddenly. For on the last occasion Martin had telephoned him at the Yard it was to tell him that Janet, his wife, had fallen down some stairs and was at the hospital awaiting a doctor’s report.
“Er—no one’s fallen down and broken their neck,” Scoop said in his slightly rueful, half-jesting way. “But— I—er—I’d like a talk with you, Pop. Er—Dad. Er—I mean, not with the family. It—er—well, Mummy’s been a bit—er—well, impatient lately and I—er—”
“We can have a drink, or a meal, or you can come here,” Roger said quietly. “I can telephone your mother and say I’ll be late.”
“Well, no need for that, anyhow,” said Scoop. “She’s gone to the pictures with Richard and Lindy, and won’t be back until elevenish. So home would do fine tonight.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” promised Roger.
He was outside and in his car within five minutes, and within twenty was at one end of Bell Street, Chelsea, the street where he and Janet had lived since their marriage, nearly thirty years ago. At one end was the wide thoroughfare of King’s Road, at the other another street which led to the Chelsea Embankment. There was a drizzle over the Thames and everywhere; the flowers and grass in the front gardens looked as if they were covered with dew; roofs and windows, fences and railings were all smeared with moisture; it was a most depressing day for May.
Roger parked out of sight of his house; he did not want to be early. If he knew Martin, the boy would be preparing a simple meal, and would like to have everything ready. He was not yet anxious, for Martin sometimes made mountains out of molehills, but he was eager to know what this S.O.S. was about. If it were something that could not be discussed about in the family, it might indeed be a cause for anxiety, for Janet got on remarkably well with her two sons.
One thing had been obvious from the moment he had heard that Janet was out with Richard and his girl-friend. Richard had deliberately taken his mother off to allow Scoop to have this “personal talk”.
Roger moved away, and pulled into the garage at the side and slightly to the front of the house in Bell Street. It was a stucco-fronted building, almost square, with bow windows. Creepers and ramblers grew on the walls, the privet hedge was neatly trimmed, and so was the small front lawn. Late wallflowers and tulips looked bedraggled and forlorn in the borders.
Roger went in by the back door, to find Martin at the kitchen sink. He turned round and gave Roger a slow smile. His face was broad, like his forehead, and but for a broken nose—from an injury caused by boxing at school —he would have been remarkably handsome, although more like his mother than Roger. But he had Roger’s full, generous-looking lips.
“Hi. Dad!”
“Hi, Scoop. What are you cooking?”
“Steak and sausages and chips. Okay?”
“Sounds wonderful. I had no lunch.” Roger went and contemplated the steaks and sausages under the grill, and saw the pan of oil already simmering, and the pile of chipped potatoes ready to be cooked. “Ten minutes?”
Fine.”
Roger went upstairs, washed, actually had time to sit back in the bedroom armchair for a few minutes before rejoining his son. The steaks and sausages were served and keeping warm under the grill; Scoop lifted a basket- scoop of golden-brown chips and put them in a deep, white, porcelain dish.
“Ever seen better French fries?” he boasted.
“Never. But what’s the matter with plain English?”
“It’s very out, to call chips chips,” Martin declared. “Sit down. Pop.”
Roger sat at the big kitchen table, covered with a deceptively linen-like plastic tablecloth, and Martin placed a huge plate of food in front of him, then sat down opposite with as heaped a plate for himself.
Suddenly, he pushed plate and knife and fork away.
“Dad, I want to emigrate. Leave England, that is. For keeps. That is for keeps as far as I know. I’ve felt like it for a long time. Hate to seem ungrateful for all you and Mum have done for me, but—” He broke off, and gulped. “Sorry, Dad.”
Roger was cutting through steak is Martin spoke, and he speared a piece on to his fork and raised it to his lips.
“You won’t emigrate anywhere if you starve to death,” he remarked.
“Eh? Oh.” Martin gave an almost sheepish grin. “I—er —I suppose you’re right.” He pulled his plate back again. “Aren’t you shocked?”
“I’m mildly surprised,” Roger declared. “But shocked — no. Why should I be?”
“I—er—I thought you’d hate the idea.”
“It didn’t occur to you that I might be glad to see the back of you?” There was a teasing gleam in his eyes and a teasing tone in his voice, but suddenly it occurred to him that this was no time to tease, that for a moment at least, Martin was taking that remark seriously. Quite suddenly the years rolled away and Roger was jesting with the “child” and immediately reassuring him; “teasing” had been a feature of their early family life and still was; he had forgotten that Martin could be led on almost as — easily as Richard.
“No,” Scoop said. “It hadn’t.”
“That’s good,” said Roger. “I didn’t quite mean what I said.”
Martin smiled with surprisingly evident relief.
“That’s good too!”
“Where do you plan to go?” inquired Roger, choosing “plan” deliberately, thinking it would help to reassure Scoop that there would be no opposition to overcome with him. But it was already evident why he had wanted this talk alone, for Janet would hate the idea of emigration.
