Gideon said: “Yes. Ugly,” and went on. But the remark had set his thoughts off on a new tack and when he went into his office, he was thinking: The swine who did that, was no hotheaded youngster-he really was a devil. But you didn’t brand the whole generation ‘proper devils’ because there were a few who were truly evil.
How would the newspapers play this up? Perhaps he should have handled the Press himself. He sat down — and the telephone rang as if operated by the chair.
“Yes,” he said gruffly.
“I’ve got Mrs. Gideon for you at last, sir.”
“Oh.” His thoughts veered again: he had a sharp little stab of fear, and all else vanished from his mind. “Put her through. After a pause, he spoke a little over-heartily: “Hallo, Kate! I’ve been trying to get you.”
“I know — I’ve been out,” Kate said, vaguely; and usually she was precise. There was a pause, almost an awkward silence. Then they both spoke at once:
“Why did you want — ?”
“I’d hoped to be early, but —”
They both broke off and then, spontaneously, they both laughed. The fact that Kate could laugh so freely persuaded Gideon that she had no great anxiety, and he felt a great sense of relief.
“But something cropped up,” she filled in for him, lightly.
“How on earth did you guess? But I will be in to dinner — seven-thirty at the latest,” he promised. “Is Penny back yet?”
“She dashed in and dashed out,” Kate said. “Half-past seven then, dear.”
“Yes, fine. ‘Bye.” Gideon rang off, reflected how calm and composed she had sounded, then caught sight of a note pinned to the Outdoor Events, June, file. He pulled this towards him and read: “C.I. Bligh would like to see you. I said provisionally five-thirty. A.H.” Gideon glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten minutes past five. He rang for Hobbs but there was no reply. He called Information and asked if there was any news from AB.
“Nothing new, sir. They haven’t got the devil, yet.’’
Devil. Young devils, Gideon grunted and rang off. He drummed his fingers on the desk, with an undertone of anger and resentment, and was still drumming when his telephone rang again. He grabbed it.
“Gideon.”
“The Press Officer would like a word with you, sir,” said the operator.
“Put him through.” The Press Officer, colloquially known as the Back Room Inspector, had an office with a door opening on the Embankment. There were always a few Fleet Street men hovering there in the hope of a sudden sensation and at times when big news was breaking, such as this, there might be two or three dozen,
“Commander?” Gideon recognised the Welsh voice of Huw Jones, the Inspector on rota at the Back Room.
“Yes, Will?”
“I’m sorry to worry you, Mr. Gideon, but the boys would like to know if you have any special message for them.” Every end of sentence and end of phrase went upwards in what sounded like a Welsh lilt but which could also suggest a Pakistani or an Indian from the northern provinces. “About this poor girl whose face was slashed, they mean.”
“Haven’t they talked to Mr. Henry?”
“Yes, indeed they have-but they would like a message from you.”
Gideon hesitated, looked at the unopened files on his desk, and said: “I’ll come down in five minutes, for five minutes.” He rang off on the Welshman’s obvious delight, pulled the files towards him and opened them to glance at the latest note in each.
In the Body in the Thames Case was the note: “Departure time Lemaitre’s plane delayed. New E.T.A. London Airport 12.30 p.m. tomorrow.” On the Madderton Bank Case: “The Chairman of Directors telephoned you twice.” There was another note: “Chipper Lee has been picked up and questioned, Knowles is now in charge.” Knowles would know what to do. He rang for Hobbs again and again there was no answer, which was unusual: Hobbs normally left a message if he were going to be out for long. He rang Information.
“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 —
