15

PC Rackham was not happy.

He was a normally courageous young man, but the cold of the November evening, the lack of companionship and the fact that his watch seemed to be operating a private go-slow, had combined to reduce his spirits to a very low point indeed.

It had not been so bad when the two factories on the north bank, opposite his post, had been in operation with workmen moving about, and there had been an exciting moment when a tug, towing two barges, had nearly overshot the entrance to the tidal basin of the Victoria Dock.

A good deal of language, which PC Rackham had appreciated, had floated across the broad waters of the Thames. These had been grey and placid when he had come on duty at four o’clock, but the tide was running out and the east wind, which had freshened as dusk fell, was now blowing directly upstream, cutting off the edges of the waves and crowning each one with a white cap.

He was squatting in a hide which his relief, PC Hind, who was something of a handyman, had constructed at the top of the concrete steps leading to the downstream end of the Universal Wharf. The hide was well dug in and had a rainproof cover, but it was small for a big man like Rackham. Its furnishing was functional; a bench to sit on and a plank to rest his elbows on. A pair of night-glasses hung from a nail and he had a scribbling-board, with a built-in light, on which to note his observations.

His instructions were simple. He would be alerted on his personal radio when any ship passed Customs at Gravesend and came upstream. He would watch for its arrival and follow it through his own zone of observation. If it continued on upstream or entered the Victoria Dock he took no action. If it approached the Universal Wharf he was to inform Reynolds Road Police Station. The main set there was netted to Gravesend and Woolwich radios as well as to the Information Room at Scotland Yard. If he needed help, his relief was available at Reynolds Road Police Station, but resting.

And a bloody sight warmer than I am, thought Rackham, looking for the third time in ten minutes at his wrist-watch. The minute-hand had crawled down to a quarter past seven. His spell ended at eight o’clock, when he would climb out, retrieve his bicycle which was hidden in some bushes at the top of the rise and pedal back to hand in his report and go home.

This report, pinned to the scribbling-board, was blank, So far, in the five days of his watch, there had been nothing to write in it and he was beginning to wonder whether Universal was used at all. Once, tiring of inactivity, he had made a cautious inspection. The wharf was a double construction, in the form of an H. The rear part, built solidly into the river bank, contained the single crane and crane-housing. It was joined by a narrow walkway to the outer section which stood in deeper water. The only sign of use was a set of fresh tyre marks in the mud beside the metalled track which ran back across the marsh to Blackwall Lane.

What seemed like half an hour later he looked at his watch again. Twenty past seven. Or might it, at a pinch, be called twenty-one past? He was debating this point when it ceased to be important.

Someone was in the crane-housing and was using a torch. Or were his eyes playing tricks? He picked up the night-glasses and focused them. No question, there was someone there.

His instructions had been specific. He was to let control know if any ship approached or anchored at the wharf. He had been notified that the SS Beatrice, Lorraine Line, four hundred tons, with a cargo of oranges and grapefruit, had left Gravesend Customs at ten minutes to five. If it was making six knots against the current it could be up with him shortly. But did activity on the wharf warrant a report? Chief Superintendent Brace was a stickler for precision in the carrying out of orders.

All the same, something odd was going on. The man at the crane must have arrived on foot or by bicycle and crept on to the wharf without attracting attention. Suspicious, certainly.

The silence was broken by the cough of an engine and a rattling of gear. Now he could see the arm of the crane swinging out against the evening sky. Common sense prevailed. He pressed the transmit button on his radio. The response was a single high-pitched shriek, strong enough to drown any attempt at speech. Either the set had broken down, or someone was using an interrupter to block his wavelength. There was no time to think this out, because a ship was approaching the wharf. First he saw the port-side and masthead lights, then the loom of the ship itself. It was roughly the right size for the Beatrice.

He heard the engines go into reverse as she sidled up to the outer wharf edge. There was a second man down there now. Where had he come from? He was dealing with the warps, first the forward one, then as the boat swung in, the rear one. He had evidently done this before, for the whole operation was carried out without any shouting of orders.

Rackham pressed the transmit button again and only succeeded in deafening himself. He wondered what the hell he should do. It would take him twenty minutes at least to reach the nearest telephone. By that time the cargo could be landed and the ship on its way again. If he went down and tried to interfere he could guess exactly what would happen. There were half a dozen men on the after deck now. They were busy dragging nets full of boxes into position under the arm of the crane.

When in doubt, use your head, not your legs.

The important point was the cargo. The ship could not escape. No doubt some sort of vehicle would be coming to pick up the boxes which were being swung ashore. As soon as these were unloaded the ship would push off as quickly as possible. He was sure of that. Then the odds would be reduced and he might be able to intervene to some effect.

Back at Reynolds Road the senior of the two officers on the console was getting worried too. More experienced than Rackham he realised immediately what was happening. He sent his number two to extract Hind, at the double, from the canteen. There was no time to lose. The importance of the listening posts had been stressed in Station Orders. When Hind arrived, he said, “Some bugger’s jamming the p.r. at Universal. I guess your chum’s in trouble. Better take one of the pandas and get down quick.”

But more than one man was needed. A rescue party would have to be organised. Difficult at any time, doubly so at that hour, when the evening relief had gone out, leaving the station almost empty. When Hind had departed, he thought about it for a long moment. Then he made up his mind, grabbed the telephone and dialled a number.

Two netfuls were ashore now. About forty boxes, Rackham calculated. The crane had been swung in, the warps cast off and the ship was backing away.

Now the crane driver had come down and was helping the second man stack the boxes at the far end of the wharf. The whole operation had taken less than ten minutes. How often had it happened before, Rackham wondered.

Time to be moving. He wriggled out of the hide and started down the steps. If he could knock one of the men out quickly he reckoned he could handle the other all right.

Then he heard the lorry coming. It had been driving, without lights, down the approach road. Now it skidded to a halt and started to back up towards the pile of boxes.

Rackham stood for a moment, watching it. The driver got out, followed by another man. The odds had lengthened uncomfortably. But he had no intention of backing down. He stumped on to the wharf, his footsteps echoing on the woodwork and bellowed out, “Hold it.”

Any doubts he may have had were set at rest by the actions of the four men. At the sound of his approach they had not turned. Their hands had gone into their pockets and by the time they swung round he saw that their faces were covered by stocking masks.

Three of them stood by the lorry. The fourth, a thick-set man who walked with a slight limp, advanced along the planking towards Rackham.

“Well now,” he said pleasantly. “It’s the boys in blue. No, not the boys – just one little blue boy, right?”

The other men had continued packing the boxes into the back of the lorry. They worked neatly and without hurry.

“I told you to stop that,” said Rackham.

“But are you in any position to give orders?” said the thick-set man. “That’s the point, isn’t it? And don’t pretend you’ve been sending for reinforcements. That toy radio of yours has been jammed for the last ten minutes, hasn’t it?”

“Never mind about my radio. And never mind about who’s coming to help me. I’m here and I’m ordering you to stop handling that cargo.”

“And if we don’t take a blind bit of notice—”

“Then I shall have to take you in charge.”

The others had suspended loading to listen to this dialogue and Rackham’s final effort produced a laugh.

“What, all of us?” said one of them.

“On your bike, copper.”

Rackham slid the truncheon out of its loop. He had an idea that if he could knock out the thick-set man, who was clearly the leader, the others might give in. He had no time to test this theory. The thick-set man shot him. The .38 bullet hit him below his collar-bone on the right-hand side, broke two ribs and lodged under his shoulder blade. The impact knocked him off his feet.

The man who had shot him took no further notice of him. “Sling that stuff in. Don’t fuck about with it.” There was a sharper edge to his voice. “We’ve got no fucking time to waste.”

“Not a fucking moment,” agreed Captain Musgrave pleasantly.

The four men swung round. It was impossible to say how it had happened, but there were now a lot of men there. Twenty at least, dressed in combat jackets without unit signs on them and carrying machine pistols in the easy way of men who knew how to use them.

In the face of such a force, opposition was going to be not only useless, but dangerous.

“On to the wharf all of you and sit down. That’s good boys. Quite comfortable? Then you can take off your girlfriends’ stockings.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Three of the men looked at the fourth. Musgrave said, “You saw this man shoot the policeman, Duffy?”

“Certainly did.”

“Then it would be a fair exchange if you shot him in the ankle.”

The masks came off in a hurry.

“Well, I’m not surprised he was wearing one, are you Duffy?”

“If I had a face like that I’d keep it under cover,” agreed Duffy.

“Suppose we have a look at the fruit.”

One of his men broke open a case and handed Musgrave a grapefruit. He dug into it with his clasp knife and felt inside for what he was sure he would find there. It was a thimble-sized plastic container, which he opened carefully. When he dipped in the tip of his little finger, it came out with a few grains of white powder on it. Musgrave tasted it and spat.

“Not exactly what we were looking for,” he said, “but interesting all the same.”

The man beside him said something and Musgrave swung round.

“I think we’ve got visitors.”

It was Michaelson at District, who had responded to the summons from Reynolds Road. He had turned out the two Immediate Response Units in their carriers, and had come with the leading one himself. They had turned off the highway and were approaching at break-neck speed down the single approach road. Sandwiched between them, in imminent fear of being overrun, was the panda car at last extracted by Detective Hind from a suspicious Transport Sergeant.

The thick-set man, who went under the name of Roberts and whose real name was Rodzinsky, observed these further reinforcements without enthusiasm. Then he noticed something else.

The strangers had vanished, so quickly and so quietly that it was hard to believe they had ever been there. His mind worked fast. There was little hope of escaping. The one road out was blocked and if they took to the open they would soon be hunted down by one or other lot of opponents. The nearest carrier was still a hundred yards away. If they worked quickly they might destroy the evidence.

“Throw the stuff into the river,” he said.

The other three men gaped at him.

“And be bloody quick about it.”

He jumped up, took one of the crates and slung it. He had misjudged the weight of the crate. It cleared the inner wharf, hit the outer one and split, spilling oranges over the planks.

The others grasped, at last, what he meant, jumped up and seized a crate each, but they had reacted too slowly. Only half a dozen had been disposed of when the police were on top of them. The fight was brief. No one enjoyed himself more than Michaelson. In a matter of minutes the four men were sitting where they had been before, only now they were handcuffed.

“First thing,” said Michaelson, tucking back his shirt which had been torn out of his trousers in the struggle, “is look after this poor chap. Who is he?”

“Rackham, sir,” said Hind.

“He did a good job. If he hadn’t held them up for a few minutes they’d have had all that stuff in the river. Get on the air and whistle up a doctor and an ambulance. Now let’s see what we’ve got.”