Chapter Twenty

S.O.S.

 

Roger came into his office a little after three o’clock, eased his collar and loosened his tie, and looked across at the sergeant’s deserted desk. Holidays meant a lot of dislocation at the Yard and the concentration on the Shop Robberies job had not helped. He sat at his own desk, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief which looked grubby, and thought fleetingly that if Janet knew he had come without a clean one, she would read him the riot act. “Reading the riot act” reminded him of the woman sergeant, Dawson, and he grinned. Ethel Win-stanley had told him that her Bella was spending most of her off-duty time in the Brasher’s Row area, and if she discovered the truth about Stone alias Simpson she would probably regard it as a triumph.

Then he saw her message; the third one on the pile. He read it once, and then more thoroughly. Before he had finished, he lifted a telephone and asked for Information.

“Who took the message from Bella Dawson?” he demanded.

“It came through Charlie Baker’s uniformed boys,” Information told him.

“Any news of that Austin?”

“Eight or nine reports in, so far. It’s been going East, last seen on the borders of Epping Forest.”

“Who’s in it?”

Information said: “Half a mo’.”

Roger waited, skimming through some of the other messages. There had been no more reports of shop burglaries, and nothing else to help trace the stolen goods. The total cash loot was higher than he had anticipated, nearly nine thousand pounds. The cigarette losses came to a little under four thousand; it was big business as well as big crime. He began to feel impatient, when Information came on again.

“Four reports say there were two men and a girl, the other reports don’t mention the occupants, just the car. There’s a report just coming over the teletype, skipper. Like to hold on?”

“Yes,” said Roger. He thought: “Two men and a girl.” There was an obvious possibility that the girl was Ruth Endicott, but that was wild guessing.

He saw the time of the first message from Bella Dawson – twelve-forty-five. Why hadn’t she reported again? That was over two hours ago. He lifted up another telephone, said: “Get me Mr. Baker of Whitechapel,” and sat with a receiver at each ear.

“You there?” Excitement quickened the Information man’s voice when he spoke again.

“What is it?”

“That car’s been traced to a house called Forest Ley, the home of the late Llewellyn Cockell,” Information said. “Cockell’s widow owns it, and a’ man named Slessor lives there.”

Roger said: “Good God!”

“My sentiments exactly! An Epping copper saw it turning into the drive, no doubt about it. According to this he telephoned his station within five minutes of seeing it, and the car’s still there.”

“Right,” said Roger. “It might mean a lot or it might be a false scent, but we’ll assume that it means business. Have Forest Ley covered—better have the whole approach area cordoned off, and station a few plain-clothes men within easy reach of the house. But don’t take any oilier action yet, and don’t let anything happen to make Slessor think we’re interested.”

“Right.”

“I’ll want a report before I leave here, too, say in ten minutes, and reports all the way to Epping.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going there?”

“Just concentrate on those reports,” Roger ordered. He rang off and hoped that Charlie Baker would not come on too soon; he needed time to think. Cockell’s stores were all over London and Southern England, all on supermarket lines, like the one in the Whitechapel Road. Mrs. Stone managed the hostel where many of the London staff lived.

Mrs. Stone—

Charlie Baker’s Cockney voice sounded in his ear, and Roger wrenched his thoughts off Mrs. Stone.

“Charlie, has Bella Dawson reported again?”

Baker didn’t answer.

“You there, Charlie?” Roger demanded sharply. He was in no mood to be patient.

Baker said: “Yes, I’m here. Had a hell of a kick in the pants, Handsome. No, she hasn’t reported. Won’t ever report again, either.”

Roger felt his heart begin to beat very fast.

“Now what’s happened?”

“Her body was found only ten minutes ago, buried in sand at a builder’s yard. A lorry driver went to pick up a load of sand, and found her. She’d been knocked on the head. Our divisional surgeon’s with her now.”

Roger didn’t speak; he knew exactly how Baker had felt when he had first come on the line.

Baker said painfully: “Done anything about that dark blue Austin?”

“Yes, we’ve traced it,” Roger answered. “To Slessor, the chain-store man. Send round to Ruth Endicott’s place, and check there—break in if you have to—on the ground that we believe the woman might have been injured. Better pick up the man Stone, and see what he can tell us. Have Mrs. Stone watched, at her hostel. I’ll be at Brasher’s Row in about half an hour—on my way out to Epping.”

“Right,” Baker said.

Roger rang off, paused for a moment, lifted the telephone again, and put in a call to the cycle shop at Whitechapel Road. It was a long time coming through. He called the Commander on the other line, and reported briefly; as he rang off, a woman came on the first telephone.

“It’s Walsh’s Cycles, here.”

“I’m sorry to worry you,” Roger said, “but I need to speak to Mr. Orde, urgently. Is he there, please?”

“Well, yes, he’s in the workshop,” the woman said. “But—”

“I wonder if you’ll give him a message,” said Roger, for time began to worry him. “Ask him if he’ll meet me, my name is West, at 37 Brasher’s Row in about twenty minutes time.”

“But—but he’s working on a rush repair. He—”

“I’m Superintendent West of New Scotland Yard, Mrs. Walsh, and need to talk to Orde urgently.”

“All right, sir,” the woman capitulated. “I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks very much,” Roger said. He stood up, fastened his collar, snatched his hat off a stand, and went out. He put his head round the door of the nearest sergeants’ room, and said: “Will someone let Information and the Commander know that I’m going to Brasher’s Row, and then out to Epping? We’re interested in a house called Forest Ley.”

A chorus of “Yes, sirs,” came after him.

He hurried down into the yard, took his car, and swung out on to the Embankment, his box beside him, his mood as black as it could be. Despite the news about Slessor, of Cockell’s, he could not concentrate on that angle, but kept seeing mind pictures of Bella Dawson, with her clear skin and snub nose, and the twinkle that had seemed to lurk in her eyes. The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or six, and she was smart or she wouldn’t have reached sergeant’s rank.

Roger flicked on his telephone.

“Send a message to Dr. Appleby for me,” he told Information. “If he can examine the body at the builder’s yard at Whitechapel Road, I’ll be grateful.”

“Right, sir.”

“Thanks,” Roger grunted. He rang off, and concentrated on driving. It was one of those afternoons when traffic was fairly clear, and when traffic lights seemed to work especially for him. He went via Tower Hill, not the Bank, and once in Aldgate, he saw two of Cockell’s stores, with the clear lettering, the big display windows, the wire baskets, the cashiers at their little counters.

Then he thought, almost absurdly: “Cockleshells all in a row.” The line from the old nursery rhyme seemed to strike with painful force. Cockell – Cockle shells. Shells, shells, shells!

He was approaching the junction of Whitechapel Road and Mile End Road when his radio picked up: “Calling Superintendent West—calling Superintendent West. Over.”

“West here,” Roger said. “West answering. Over.”

“Information calling, sir. The cordon has been put round Forest Ley, and the Austin car is still in the drive of the house. Mrs. Cockell is said to be out of the country. Mrs. Stone is not in her office or in her apartment. No one has gone in or come out of Forest Ley since our last report, and all approaches to it are now closed. Are we to hold anyone coming out?”

Roger said: “Yes.”

“Are we to raid the house itself, sir?”

Roger said: “I’ll call you. There’s another urgent surveillance job. If necessary ask Commander Hardy to arrange to transfer men from the other London Divisions. We want every one of Cockell’s stores watched.”

Information made a choking sound.

“And the Cockell hostel, not just Mrs. Stone,” Roger said. “Don’t raid any places, just watch, especially for men who answer the descriptions of the shop raiders.”

“Right.”

“If Mr. Hardy has any misgivings, ask him to call me at Whitechapel,” Roger went on. “Anything else for me?”

“Dr. Appleby is on his way to Whitechapel, Mr. West.”

“Thanks,” Roger said. He rang off, and turned the next corner.

Just ahead was an ambulance, several police cars, a cordon of police across the road, and a crowd of at least fifty people. Policemen cleared a path for him and he went into the builder’s yard. The girl was lying on her side, in a strangely relaxed attitude, as if she were asleep. In the tight-fitting blue jeans and the green linen blouse, she looked very small and very young. Someone had wiped her nose, eyes and mouth, but the sand still clung to her hair, ears and neck. A police surgeon was examining her wrists. Divisional men were bending over footprints in the yard, and others were examining the gate posts. The lorry driver who had found the body was standing by his tip-up lorry in a corner, still looking pale. Charlie Baker came massively across to Roger, pushing his hat to the back of his head, his round face burned almost to a mahogany colour, his fringe of curly hair making him even more like a painting of a saint without his beard.

Roger said: “How about the Endicott widow?”

“Gone off,” said Baker.

“Anyone see her go?”

“A neighbour saw her leave with two men, who drove off in a car. That blue Austin Cambridge, for certain,” said Baker. “I’ve talked to Stone. He says he tried to find out some information about her husband, and she flared up and gave him marching orders. He’s still at his shop. Want to see him?”

Roger was looking over the heads of the crowd towards two men who came hurrying; one of them was young Owen, alias Orde, bare-headed, eyes glinting, chin thrust forward.

“Not yet,” Roger said. “If Mrs. Endicott didn’t work with these people, she’s been kidnapped.” It was strange to find the word come out so dispassionately. “In any case, we want her in a hurry.”

“If she’s alive,” said Baker.

Roger looked down at the slight, still body of Detective Sergeant Dawson, as Owen came pushing his way into the yard. A Divisional man said: “Don’t tread on that footprint!” Another muttered: “Mind your big feet.” Anxiety made Owen look almost distinguished as he drew up, but he waited for Roger to speak.

“Mrs. Endicott’s been taken away,” Roger said. “We know where she is.”

“Then what are we standing here for?” demanded Owen, harshly. “Where is she?”

Roger said: “She’s at a house in Epping, and the Epping police know where.”

“Why isn’t the house being raided?” Owen forgot that he was talking to a senior officer.

Roger said: “It will be raided when we’re ready.” He looked at Owen very straight, realising that the man was desperately anxious to go to the rescue of the woman. That kind of reaction was natural, but there was a better way for Owen to help. Roger had a sense of inevitability, that Owen had been fated to take a part in this as well as to become emotionally involved.

Roger went on: “Take it easy, Owen, I’ve a job for you soon.” He could tell from the man’s tense expression that Owen expected to be put on to a stop-gap job, but he didn’t retort, and Appleby came up, wearing an old alpaca jacket and a straw boater. He looked at the group gathered about the dead policewoman, went down on one knee, and inspected the hands and the ankles.

The police surgeon from the Division said: “I can’t make those marks out, Dr. Appleby. Can you? See the snag marks round the ankles of the stockings? All the ladders start there. And then the marks round the wrists—” he broke off.

Appleby went squatting down. A car engine started up. People at the back of the crowd were talking noisily, and a policeman said: “Move along, there, make a gangway.”

“Yes,” said Appleby. “They’re f-f-finger-marks, not rope or card marks. See the mark of the f-f-finger-nails just here?” He pulled the leg of the jeans up a little, and showed three crescent shaped marks on the fair clear skin. On the stockings were some greasy looking marks, and he put his nose down and sniffed. “B-b-bacon fat,” he announced. “The man had just handled fat bacon.” He stood up, went to the side of the sand, and pointed to some marks. “Looks as if this b-b-bit’s been left undisturbed. See the mark? Two men swung her to and fro, holding wrists and ankles, and then l-l-let her go. She landed there. With luck, she was almost unconscious by the time she landed.”

“I’ve checked the place where she was struck on the back of the neck,” the Divisional Police Surgeon put in quickly. “She was unconscious when she was buried.”

“Yes,” said Appleby. “Unconscious but b-b-b-buried alive.” He straightened up. “Handsome,” he said, “we’ve always known this was an ugly job. We can see it’s even ug-ug-uglier. How many men were involved in the mass raids?”

“Sixty-six, at least.”

“They wouldn’t use every man they’d g-got. There must be eighty or more.”

“Yes,” Roger said.

“Know the leader yet?”

“We think we know a bit,” Roger said cautiously. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, thinking how near Cockell’s store was, that the killers had probably come from there. But he mustn’t be precipitate; he had a big job to do. “The leader’s got Ruth Endicott a prisoner.” He broke off, looking into Appleby’s eyes, fully aware that Baker was puzzled by his manner, that Appleby was too, while Owen looked both mutinous and sullen. “The main job is to pick up all those eighty men,” he said. “If we don’t, then we’ll be coming up against them for years. See my problem?”

Appleby nodded.

“But if Slessor of Cockell’s is the man, and you pick him up—” Baker began, but stopped as if understanding dawned on him.

“The usual method would be to cut off the head and let the limbs wither away, but can we?” Roger demanded. “Dare we? Think how many killers there are involved. Look at what’s happened here.” The grease spots on that sheath-like stocking seemed to show up more vividly as he looked down. “If they lose their leader they’ll lie low for a bit, but they’ll start again, because—”

He didn’t finish.

“Trained to it,” Appleby said.

“What is this?” demanded Baker, and one of the Divisional men muttered something under his breath. Traffic rumbled in the distance, and a policeman said again: “Move along there, move along.”

“What this is,” declared Appleby, looking even more boyish than usual, “is the established fact that sixty or more trained crooks are at large. They might be warned, and split up into ones and twos. That’s Handsome’s worry. Is there a way of c-c-catching all of ’em in one go? Eh, Handsome? If there is, it will justify t-t-taking risks with the Endicott girl. That it?” Roger said: “That’s it.”