John Creasey - Alibi

So he smiled, and with a rare gesture leaned across the table and pressed his son’s hand.

“Things were very much the same between the two wars,” he remarked. “Before I met your mother and joined the police I was very tempted to go overseas. I think I would have chosen Canada or the United States.” He pressed Martin’s hand again, and went on, “In every generation there are those who are driven by some inner compulsion to emigrate. It’s a form of pioneering, and it’s very deep in the British, in fact in most Europeans. I would say there is only one thing that should stop you.”

Martin stiffened.

“What’s that?”

“If you feel you are running away or deserting your country. If you yourself felt like that you would probably always have it on your mind and it would reduce your chances of settling down, being contented, and doing well. Do you ever feel even remotely like that?”

Martin’s gaze was very steady, and he took his time replying. At last he answered.

“No, father, I don’t. I don’t think I’ve anything to offer here. I really don’t. If I think anything I feel—oh, gosh, it sounds so corny, but I feel a responsibility to people, not to places, not even to my own people. Just people. And I can fulfil that wherever I am.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” agreed Roger. “Answer me one question.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Has anything driven you away from home? From your mother and me?”

“Good God, no!” Martin was aghast. “Absolutely no. ” He hesitated for a while before going on in a different tone, “I feel in a way I’ve failed you. I simply can’t stay here and sponge on you. I just have to make my own way independently. It’s something in me, nothing to do with you or mother or Fish. I just have to go.”

Roger pushed his chair back, rounded the table, and put his arm about his son’s shoulder. He felt the strength of muscle, the solidity, very much like his own. He stood like that, searching for the exact words to convey his feelings; it had never been so important that he should say exactly the right thing.

At last, he said, “When you’re gone, Scoop, I shall miss you; miss you terribly. But I shall envy you, too, and admire you because you had the courage I lacked when I was your age.”

He stopped.

He wondered: was that the right note? Was it right?

He felt his son’s shoulders shaking a little; heard a convulsive sigh; a gulp, as for breath. Then he realised that Martin was crying. Not much, he would never cry much, but—crying. Tears actually fell. Roger withdrew his arm and then went to the sink and put more water in the kettle. His back to his son, he asked, “Worried about your mother’s reaction?”

There was a sniff. “I—yes. Yes, I am.”

“You needn’t be.”

After a pause Martin said in an almost incredulous voice, “What?”

“You needn’t be. Oh, she’ll be hurt, you’re quite right about that. But she won’t fight it and she won’t think you’ve let her down in any way. She won’t reproach you. And in a way she’ll be glad. As parents we can’t be happy at the fact that you haven’t found the right niche in England, can’t be happy that you’re obviously torn up inside.”

Martin was getting up and turning round, cheeks tear- stained, eyes opened wide in disbelief mingled with hope.

“Are you—are you sure?”

“We’ll find out when she comes home,” Roger said. “She won’t be long. If you prefer me to tell her I will.”

“No,” said Martin in a strangled voice. “I’ll tell her.”

• • •

Roger had never been more proud of his wife, or more pleased, or more affectionate towards her, than as he watched while Scoop told her very simply what he wanted: what he meant to do. They were still in the kitchen, and the kettle was on for tea, while he, Roger, put biscuits and cheese and fruit cake out for Janet and for Richard when he came in from seeing Lindy to her house, near by. Janet, tall and attractive, with her dark hair touched with grey, a fresh complexion and green- grey eyes, sat in an old saddle-back chair while Martin perched on a corner of the kitchen table.

And then he finished, saying, “I just have to go. I hate hurting you but I just have to go.”

Janet leaned forward, both hands outstretched in reassurance.

“Of course you have to,” she said. “I’ve known for a long time that you’ve been restless and unhappy. And—” she drew him towards her “—and as for hurting, darling, I’d be much more hurt if you stayed home and were miserable because you didn’t think I could take it.”

“Oh, Mum!” Martin cried. “Oh, Mum!”

Suddenly, he was on her lap, his head buried on her shoulder. Roger saw her glistening tears as she soothed him. The next moment there was the sound of a key turning in the front door, and a few seconds later Richard came along the passage, whistling until he breezed into the kitchen. Catching sight of Scoop and his mother, he exclaimed sol to voce, “Gosh!”

Then he looked across at his father. He was tall and dark, well-dressed in an up-to-the-minute Carnaby Street style, and looking exactly what he was: a highly successful young man in his chosen occupation. He was in fact one of the most promising younger men in television production and directing. A year younger than Martin, he now looked about thirteen as he shot an almost agonised questioning look at Roger.

Roger cocked a thumb.

“Come and make the tea, Fish, will you?” he said. I want to nip along to the bathroom.”

Scoop was leaning against the sink, drinking tea, when Roger went back to the kitchen. Janet had tea and a piece of cake on a small table by her side. Richard was tucking into the biscuits and cheese, and saying, “Anyone else want apple-pie and cream before I woof up the lot?”

No one did.

• • •

Later, Roger sat downstairs, reading through his reports, altering a word or two here, making changes of emphasis, seeing all the people concerned, in his mind’s eye, and yet for once putting most of his attention on his family. No matter what he said or even pretended to himself, the fact of Scoop’s going hurt. And if it hurt him, what would Janet feel? He waited until he heard doors close upstairs; she had been in to each boy to say goodnight, an old children’s days habit which asserted itself at all times of emotional crisis. He heard her clear “Goodnight, Scoop,” and then went upstairs. She was already half-undressed, very pale, and her eyes were shiny with tears.

“Hallo, darling,” he said. “You were wonderful!”

That was the moment when she burst out crying . . .

It was a long time before she stopped and got ready for bed, but it was not long, once she was in bed, before Roger heard her even breathing, and knew she was asleep.

He felt very tired but lay awake for over an hour. As the minutes passed, Scoop’s face faded from his mind and he could picture Rachel Warrender’s and Mario Rapelli’s. He wondered whether they were sleeping, and whether the divisional police were keeping Rapelli under proper surveillance.

He thought of Maisie Dunster with her bright hair and cherry-red lips; of Hamish Campbell and his chef’s hat and white smock; of Wilfred Smithson and his tape- recorder and earphones. The odd thing was that he did not give a thought to Coppell, nor even to Benjamin Artemeus and the proposals he had promised to make.

Chapter Six

DEATH

The telephone woke Roger next morning, and he groped for it, aware of the daylight, of Janet next to him, of the harshness of the bedside bell. He lifted the receiver, nearly dropped it and so made more noise, muttered “Blast it,” and then grunted, “West here.”

“This is Blackie Cole,” a man said. “Blackie. Are you awake, Handsome?”

Blackie! Swift pictures of Rapelli, Verdi, and everyone involved, flashed through Roger’s mind.

“Yes. What’s up?”

“Verdi’s dead,” announced Blackie, and stopped after the brusque statement.

In a way it was a good thing he did, for Roger needed a few moments to recover. Verdi, dead of a blow with a guitar, making murder the charge against Rapelli, with two witnesses prepared to swear he had swung that bizarre weapon. Roger struggled to a sitting position and felt a pillow being pushed into the gap between the head panel and the small of his back. Bless Janet!

“And what?” he asked Cole.

“The witness, Wilfred Smithson, died in a road accident late last night,” stated Blackie flatly. “Not a hit and run, but the driver was probably drunk.” He paused again and then added almost superfluously. “That makes the pastry-cook even more important.”

Now there seemed not the slightest doubt that there was deep significance behind the Verdi affair. There had been yesterday’s stubborn attempt to get dismissal of the charge and now this tragedy; together they were too much for a coincidence.

Roger said roughly, “We must watch Campbell like lynxes.”

“I’ve got his home covered, back and front,” Blackie assured him. “I thought you should know straight away.”

“You couldn’t be more right,” Roger approved. The bedside clock told him that it was a little after six. Janet had snuggled down again and he thought she was more asleep than awake. “Anything else?”

“No,” said Blackie, and gave a grim laugh. “Isn’t that enough?”

“What about the driver of the car?”

“He’s a man named Fogarty, and we’re holding him at North Kensington. The accident happened in Fulham at Fulham Broadway, just after eleven o’clock last night. The night man at North Ken tied Smithson in with your court affair and put word through at once. So we did a very quick job on Fogarty. Howard has all the details.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. At least that was one good thing.

He rang off, and got out of bed. Janet stirred but did not speak, perhaps her way of saying that she wanted to try to get off to sleep again. In a way he would be glad to be out of the house before she was up and there was more discussion about and with Scoop. There could be no argument: he had to start on this new stage of the investigation very quickly. After last night Janet should be all right; in a way it might even be better for her to have an hour with the boys on their own. He bathed, dressed, shaved, and was downstairs in twenty minutes, making tea and toast; he disliked starting out without anything to eat.

Half an hour after receiving the telephone call he was driving through nearly deserted streets towards North Kensington, only twenty minutes away. He passed two dust-carts, some red Post Office vans, some milk-carts and several newspaper boys on bicycles, before he pulled up outside the Victorian red-brick building. A constable standing outside the entrance regarded him at first with disapproval and then, on recognition, almost with alarm. Roger nodded and strode up the steps. The duty sergeant in the charge room on the right of the main hall, was yawning over some reports. He looked up, saw Roger, and sprang to attention.

“Mr. West!”

“Who’s in charge?” asked Roger.

“Superintendent Howard, sir. First on the right at the top of the stairs,” he added as Roger began to turn away.

Roger went up the stairs two at a time, yet Howard, a bulky man and near the end of his police service, was at the open door of the room by the time Roger appeared. He was swift-moving and fast-thinking, and as he shook hands he said, “You’re after that driver we’re holding, aren’t you?”