“What’s the latest on Detective-Constable Conception?”
“A message has just come in, sir,The cheek injury is superficial. The lip injuries are serious and seven stitches have been inserted.”
So she wasn’t likely to be able to talk for some time. Poor kid. She wasn’t much older than Penny!
“Anything else the matter with her?”
There was a pause, before the answer came: “Only shock, sir.”
Only shock! Gideon rang off with a grunt and strode out of his office and off down to the Back Room. When he opened the door, after the near-silence of the long corridors, it was like stepping into a particularly crowded bedlam. At least thirty men and women, the women heavily outnumbered, were crammed together in a room not really large enough for half as many.
Tall, dark and thin-faced, with rather heavy-lidded but unexpectedly bright blue eyes, Huw Jones was the only one present with any real elbow-room. He sprang up from behind his desk in a corner as one of the reporters held the door open while Gideon squeezed through.
Silence fell, strange and sudden. Gideon broke it, by saying: “I’ve just five minutes, I’m afraid that will have to suffice. A brief statement, first: Detective-Constable Conception is suffering from shock and is not yet able to make a statement. I do not know when she will be able to. The murdered man was Kenneth Noble, one of an Action Committee believed to be planning some kind of demonstration against the South African touring team at Lords during the Second Test. We want to interview another member of the Committee: Roy Roche — R-O-C-H-E — whom we believe may be able to help us with our inquiries in connection with the murder. A general call for him has gone out.”
He stopped, without warning, but a man was ready with a question.
“Do you think Roche was violent because he felt the police officer had betrayed the cause, Commander?”
“If you’re asking me whether I personally believe that the discovery that a trusted ally of a Peace Group had been a spy would turn an ordinary man into a killer — no,” Gideon stated flatly. “I have simply told you the bare facts.”
“Do you think there could be any other motive?”
“Obviously there could be. I don’t yet know what the motive was — nor who committed the crime.”
“Did you personally know that the policewoman was on this assignment, Commander?” This came from a little gingery woman with sharp, rather feline-looking green eyes.
“Yes..” Gideon stated flatly.
“Do you think it’s fair to use agents provocateurs, in — ?” began a thin-lipped, pallid-faced man.
“Nonsense,” Gideon said bluntly. “Detective-Constable Conception was not an agent provocateur. She was doing a difficult and dangerous job extremely well.”
“Was the raid on this so-called Action Committee due to her investigations?” another man asked.
“No. She was reported missing. Chief Superintendent Henry took very prompt and very effective action. We knew we were dealing with a group of extremists who under pressure might cause serious disturbances. We did not know that one of them might be an incipient murderer. We don’t know — as has already been made clear — whether the murder was a result of the Action Committee’s plans or whether the Action Committee was used as a cover. When we find the man we wish to interview — “
“Any news of him, sir?” a man interrupted.
“No. I really — “
“Do you think the Action Committee will call off its campaign, Commander?”
“I don’t know. Obviously, I hope they’ll be shocked into seeing sense and so changing their minds.”
“Don’t you think they believe they’re the ones who do see sense?” asked the thin-lipped man. “Haven’t they every right—?”
“Don’t expect me to get into political arguments,” Gideon interrupted with a kind of bluff good humour. “I don’t think any man, ever, has the right to cause, incite or commit crimes of violence of any kind. And now I really must go.”
“Commander —”
“Mr. Gideon!”
“Commander, one more question!” a big man squeezed into a corner boomed out, above all the others. “Will the police make the same kind of effort over the attack on a coloured police-officer as they would if she were white?”
The booming voice fell silent, and over the room there fell a hush. The man with the thin lips seemed to be sneering, as if saying: “Now answer that, you smug so-and-so!”
Gideon looked at the questioner, pursed his lips and answered: “Exactly the same. Possibly a little more, if that were possible.”
“Because she’s coloured!” spat the tight-lipped man. “That’s inverted prejudice, and you know it!”
“No,” Gideon answered, equably. “Because she’s a woman!”
The thin-lipped man fell silent, as if abashed, and someone called: “Nice going, Gee-Gee!” while someone else murmured: “Bloody good answer!” And more of them made a note of that reply, than of any other he had given. Raising a hand in a ‘good-bye’ gesture, he nodded to Huw Jones, then went out. He felt reasonably satisfied that he had made the important points, and at least he had drawn the fire from Henry.
He felt suddenly cold in the corridor, which told him how hot it had been in that room — and how hot he had got under the collar. He saw very few people on the way back to his office, and as he opened the door, heard Big Ben strike the half-hour; so he was exactly on time. He went to the window for a moment but was too restless to stand and contemplate the scene. The truth, he told himself, was that he wanted time and a clear mind to think about what Alec Hobbs had told him about Penny and Kate, and instead there was hardly time to breathe. To give point to the thought, a telephone rang as he turned to his desk.
“Gideon,” he grunted.
“This is Henry.” The AB Superintendent seemed to be having trouble controlling his voice. “We’ve got Roche cornered, thank God!”
“Cornered?” Gideon asked sharply.
“He’s locked himself in a disused cafe in Swiss Cottage,” Henry explained. “And he’s got a gun, sir. One of our uniformed men challenged him and was shot at. We don’t know for certain, but there may be others with him. I’d like —”
“Go on!” Gideon urged, as he broke off.
“I should like to tackle him myself, sir,” Henry said. “I’d like permission to carry a gun.”
Gideon was silent for a long time; too long, he knew. But a great deal was flashing through his mind in those moments, one lightning thought following another like a film run at double speed.
Roche trapped: good.., And Henry wants to redeem himself ,.. But might he take unnecessary chances? . . . A gun could only be issued in a known emergency but would certainly be justified . . . And Gideon himself would have liked to tackle the killer, too: in the circumstances, it would be almost a reflex desire with any policeman .., But his job was here — to lead, guide, advise, decide. Henry was obviously standing or sitting like a statue . . . Is he the right one to trust with a gun? . . . But if not, who ought to be sent? . . . Indeed, there was hardly time to send anyone else . . .
“Are you — are you there, sir?” Henry could not keep quiet any longer.
“Yes. Have you a Justice of the Peace handy, to sign your permit for a gun?”
“Sitting by me, sir!” Henry’s voice took on a positively lyrical note.
“Then go ahead,” said Gideon.
He repressed the impulse to say: “Be careful.” One had to trust senior men like Henry, and they could only be judged after the event. But Henry, whatever his feelings, replied with studied calm: “Very good, sir.”
“I’ll be in my office,” Gideon told him, and hung up. It flashed into his mind that if the capture of Roche took too long, it might prevent him from getting home at half-past seven; but the thought was gone almost as soon as it formed. He spared another moment to hope devoutly that in his anger, Henry would not lose his head, then glanced again at the note: C.I. Bligh would like to see you. I said provisionally five-thirty.