John Creasey - Gideon’s Sport

“Yes, Commander.”

This way, Commander.”

“Is Mr. Henry expecting you, Commander?”

He was, not!

A door opened and a man came out, in shirt-sleeves, roaring with laughter as he looked back into the room; he would have cannoned into Gideon had Gideon not dodged. He slammed the door and turned, saw and recognised Gideon and seemed to change on the instant to a statue, he was so rigidly still. His expression was one of horrified surprise; obviously the alert system was not a hundred per cent efficient.

“Good afternoon,” Gideon murmured, and passed on.

Henry’s office was on the third floor but the open-type stairs were shallow and by walking up, he would give the Divisional Superintendent just a little time to get his wind. Led by a uniformed constable half his age, he reached Henry’s door as it opened. Henry concealed his feelings very well, and actually smiled a welcome.

“Good afternoon, Commander! I didn’t expect you.”

“Didn’t expect myself,” Gideon said off-handedly. “I’d forgotten what a palace they made for you here.” He had also noticed that the three-year-old modern construction building was spick and span; no marks on painted walls, no smears on the floor: indicative of a man in charge who kept a tight control.

The office he entered was a large, square room with contemporary-type furniture, a long window overlooking houses which stood in their own grounds and, beyond trees and rooftops, some of the rolling grassland of Hampstead Heath. The window was wide open and a pleasant breeze came in; he could even hear the leaves of the trees rustling. As he went to the window and looked out, he heard Henry ask: “Like some coffee, sir? Or something stronger?”

“Coffee, please,” said Gideon, turning round.

He did not know what an impressive and massive figure he was. Nor did he know that standing by a window on the half-turn was a characteristic pose with which nearly every senior policeman was familiar. It was almost as if he were turning away from the long-term problems, turning away from contemplation of the countless incidents of crime, to deal with one particular task. There was something almost physical in the way he seemed to concentrate.

Henry was at the telephone. He was a man of medium height; fair-haired, almost gingery, with broad but pleasant features, big, deep-set eyes and a rather small mouth with a straight line for an upper lip. Gideon had forgotten how freckled of face he was, then realised that the freckles would show up more because of the spell of sunny weather.

Henry put down the telephone.

“Care to sit down, sir?”

“I’m all right, thanks. You sit.” But Henry, too, preferred to stand. He was now showing a trifle of disquiet and Gideon decided to put his mind at rest. “I’ve had a rocket,” he announced.

“You have?”

“Home Secretary, via the Commissioner,” explained Gideon.

“Oh, I see! About the demonstration?”

“The Home Secretary doesn’t want a demonstration!”

Henry half-laughed. “I don’t, either, but what do we do? Lock all the anti-apartheid types up?”

“Might even come to that,” said Gideon, mildly. “We can interpret ‘disturbing the peace’ pretty widely, if we have to. Have you heard anything more?”

“Not a thing. But I’ve drawn up a report, in the rough, showing the situation to date. It’s not typed yet, though.”

“I’d like to see it. How about this police officer you’re using as agent provocateur?”

“I wouldn’t call her that,” protested Henry, almost too quickly. “She’s simply sitting in at the Action Committee’s meetings. Since your question I’ve thought about the possibility of physical danger to her but I don’t really think there’s any need to worry.”

He took a file from his desk. As he handed it to Gideon, the door opened and an elderly constable brought in coffee, cheese, butter and some plain and some chocolate biscuits. Gideon hardly noticed this as he began to read the report. He soon realised that Henry was still extremely thorough.

There was a list of the Action Committee members: names, addresses, associates, with biographical notes on each, including age and previous record in agitation, and known or suspected political allegiances. Some were marked Communist; others: Very left wing; yet others: Anarchist. There were the dates of meetings and, at the back of the main report, some well-typed ‘minutes’ of the meetings. As he skimmed these, Gideon realised that Henry had been working on this for weeks: he should certainly have informed him or Hobbs. The moment would come to say so.

“Milk or cream, sir?”

“Hot milk?” Gideon glanced up.

“Yes.”

“Milk, then. Very comprehensive report, I see.”

“Thank you.”

“Who produced these meeting minutes?”

“Constable Conception, sir.”

“Constable, who?” Gideon taking the proffered cup, was startled.

“Conception,” repeated Henry, and gave a funny little laugh. “No one can ever believe it, first time.”

“Heard of it as a Christian name,” mused Gideon. “How long has she been on the Force?”

“About a year,” answered Henry.

“Did she come straight here?”

“No, sir. She was transferred from N.E. Division. You remember there was a time when we had some trouble over immigration in this area, and I asked for someone who might be able to smooth it over.”

“I remember, and you told me about her,” Gideon said. “But I’d forgotten. Is she Jamaican?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’mm,” said Gideon, in an almost forbidding tone. “Sure that’s wise?”

“In what way, sir?”

“Can she be objective? No use fighting prejudice with prejudice, Chas.”

“I-er-I don’t think there’s the slightest doubt about her objectivity,” Henry replied, a little stiffly. He watched as Gideon moved across and picked up a chocolate biscuit. “I have every confidence in her.” As if with a flash of inspiration, he went on: “Would you like to see her, sir? She’s waiting for my summons,”

“Yes, good idea,” Gideon nodded, as if this were a new notion to him, also. “But let me get the situation absolutely clear, first. She came from N.E. division, and has been working under cover here, posing as an enthusiastic member of the group of agitators, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Plainclothes, when she’s here?”

“Oh, she’s detective-constable, sir.”

“What happens if she’s recognised when she reports for duty?”

“There isn’t much risk,” answered Henry, and added with just a hint of impatience. “We’ve handled it very carefully, sir. She concentrates on this job and reports by telephone or sees me at night. It’s only in emergency that she comes in during the day, and then she arrives by car. It’s most unlikely she would be seen by anyone who knows her.”

“I see,” said Gideon, heavily. “You use her on this exclusively, you mean.”

“And in a consultant and advisory position on other matters, relating to immigrants and — er — racial problems.” Henry’s answer was obviously rehearsed. “I felt that the danger of a major demonstration during the Test Match warranted full concentration, sir.”

Gideon’s “Yes,” was non-commital.

Henry was quite right, of course; and the Yard had half-a-dozen plainclothes officers concentrating on the problems of integration. Some were trivial, some went very deep. But Henry certainly should not have done this without consultation; at divisional level, he could not be sure that he wasn’t cutting across lines already drawn up by the Yard.

If he said so now, however, he might put Henry on the defensive, and such a mood would probably convey itself to the girl — Good God, Conception! — and make her feel awkward. Even as things were she would be only too conscious of talking with the Commander.