John Creasey: Send Superintendent West

His hands were cold from the water, except at the finger tips, which were protected by sticking-plaster. He rubbed them together as he went upstairs. The door of the main bedroom was ajar, and the Shawns lay together on the big double bed, Shawn nearer the door, his dark head close to his wife’s, which was almost platinum blonde. She lay on her back, Shawn on his left side, facing her, one hand limp on her breast. She wore a filmy pink nightdress or pyjamas, but Shawn hadn’t undressed completely. Mac went across to the bed, buried his fingers in Shawn’s hair, and tugged. Shawn’s head jerked back, but he didn’t make a sound or flicker an eyelid. Mac shone his torch into the woman’s face and stood there for a long time. He had a reputation that was bad even among people who rejected the ordinary moral codes; his expression showed why. It was hungry; it was brutal.

“Boy,” he said, “it would only take five minutes. What’s to stop me?”

He moved towards her, hand outstretched, but suddenly drew back, turned on his heel, and went out, leaving the door still ajar. Across the wide landing, another door was open. Inside, a boy of about ten years lay on his side in a single bed, his black hair making him look like a miniature edition of his father. The bedclothes were pulled out of the side of the mattress, and only blue-and-white striped pyjamas covered the boy.

Mac bent over him, seeing features which were startlingly like Belle Shawn’s; then, turning from the bed, he took a small suitcase from the bottom of the wardrobe. In this he packed the clothes the boy had taken off, now folded on a chair, toothbrush, paste, clean handkerchiefs, shirts, socks and a spare suit. Then he went back to the bed, carrying a top coat, sat the boy up, and forced his arms into the sleeves. None of this took very long. He hoisted the boy up to his left shoulder, managing to retain the flashlight in his left hand, picked up the suitcase and went out of the bedroom and downstairs.

He had to put the case down to open the back door, hold the door steady with his foot, pick up the case, and then back out. A gust of wind caught him by surprise, pulling the door free and slamming it The noise shattered the quietness, making Mac hiss.

The wind ruffled the boy’s hair.

Mac kept to the grass, and watched the windows of the neighbouring houses. No lights came on. When he reached the gate, Jay was moving towards him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Get going.” Mac held out the case, and Jay took it He was taller than Mac, and thinner, with a small head and wide brimmed hat; the two men made a sharp contrast

Ed was at the corner, burly, podgy, scared.

“You hear that door bang?”

“I banged it,” Mac said. Take the kid.”

“If anyone wakes up . . .”

“Just take the kid.”

Ed gulped and obeyed, cradling the boy in his arms. Then he bent down, as Jay opened the rear door of the car, and lifted the boy inside, sat him on the seat and pushed him towards the far corner. By the time he had finished, Mac was at the wheel and Jay was beside him, case on his knees. Ed closed the door, which didn’t fasten properly.

“Leave it,” Mac ordered.

Ed kept a hand on the handle to stop the rattling. Mac didn’t start the engine, but took off the hand-brake; the gradient was steep enough to start the car rolling, and they moved a hundred yards or so before he switched on the engine and the side-lights. The engine made little noise. Near a corner, Mac put on the head-lights and this time Ed didn’t protest. The lights swept the road ahead as they turned the corner, and out of the night came a man.

He was at a gate. He was dressed in dark clothes that looked black, and a helmet. A flashlight seemed to be fastened somewhere on to his stomach. He didn’t move, yet seemed to leap in front of their eyes. They could see his big face and heavy moustache. He was there only for a moment before they passed him. Mac kept the head-lights on.

Ed turned his head and stared out of the back window. As they turned a corner, he moved round slowly, moistening his lips.

“You see him?”

“We’re not blind,” Jay said.

“A cop.”

“We don’t have to worry about English cops,” Jay said. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

“We don’t have to worry about anything,” Mac stated flatly.

“Even in this goddamned country it isn’t a crime to drive by night, although maybe you’d think it was, they go to bed so early. Ed” — he maintained the steady monotone — “you’ve got work to do. It should be easy, you have kids of your own. Open that case — give him the case, Jay — and get the kid dressed. We still have an hour. Take it easy. Don’t forget his underpants.” Mac sounded as if that was meant for a joke. “You want to close the door?”

Ed took another glance out of the back window, slammed the door, then began to dress the kidnapped child.

2

ASSIGNMENT

ROGER West lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing heavily, giving a fair imitation of a snore. He heard the door open, and stealthy movements inside the room. He didn’t open his eyes. Rustling sounds followed, and he knew he wouldn’t need to keep up the pretence much longer. Cups chinked as a tray was put on the small table next to the bed on his side, and he opened his eyes and looked through his lashes at the broad face of Martin-called-Scoopy, his elder son, beaming down at him.

“ ‘Morning, Pop!”

“I’ll pop you,” Roger said, gruffly. He struggled up to a sitting position as Richard, his younger son, half a head taller than Martin, entered the bedroom. Both boys had the glow of health in cheeks and eyes, and in that moment something in their expressions made them remarkably alike, although usually they were so different. Your mother’s all right or you wouldn’t be looking so pleased with yourselves. You want something, or you wouldn’t both be here. No.”

He began to pour out tea.

At twenty-one, Martin was more than old enough to know his own mind, and he was studying art at the Chelsea College of Painting, working in the evenings and weekends. Richard was working at a film studio near London, hoping to write scripts for a living. It was seldom that either came to him for anything, these days; for them both to come at once was rare indeed.

“If it’s no,” Richard said, “you’re in for a shock, Dad.”

Roger sipped his tea.

“Well, one of us is,” he temporized. There was something in their minds he couldn’t guess. It wasn’t April Fool’s Day. It wasn’t his birthday. It wasn’t —

Suddenly, he remembered; it was the first day of the Summer Sales, and Janet had said she wanted to go to Oxford Street. She was desperate for a new Autumn outfit; he must have slept on — but no, it wasn’t too late — just before eight.

“All right,” he said. “Shock me.”

“Mum forgot to get any money out of the bank,” Richard said, “and you’ve only a pound in your wallet. So she’s gone to get a place in the queue at Debb’s, and somehow you have to take her some money.”

“Twenty-four years wed, she complained,” said Scoop, “and she still doesn’t know where you keep your secret hoard. She turned the place upside down.”

“I still keep it at the bank, and she knows it,” Roger said. “I’ll have to change a cheque at a shop on the way.”

It was an empty kind of morning, without Janet; emptier as soon as the boys had left. Boys? And Richard a bare year younger than Martin? He laughed the thought away as he went downstairs to get his own breakfast; but there was instant porridge, bacon and eggs in the frying pan, everything ready for him.

He caught Janet a few yards from the main entrance at Debb’s, one of several hundred women; and once he had put thirty pounds into her hands there was a surge forward as the door opened.