Policeman's Progress Read online

  Thor tried to reassure them. ‘I think he’s got a pretty good chance of getting away with it at the moment … according to the radio, they can’t identify the body … perhaps never will, unless I turn in my proof.’

  Casella chuckled evilly. ‘Stott must be having a real bad day … a murder rap hanging over him and someone about to cut the business from under his feet.’

  Hansen smiled bleakly as he stood up. ‘I must pick the girl up from the town. I’ll ring you here the morning after next to fix a meeting with Stott. I take it you won’t be at the disturbance tomorrow night?’

  Papagos showed his full complement of gold teeth. ‘Too damn right – we keep clear of anything illegal … we don’t pay dogs and then do the barking ourselves. Better get yourself a steel helmet, son, we’ve got a few real lively lads this time!’

  Chapter Nine

  Half an hour after the arrival of the message from NECRO, a black Austin Westminster and a white Ford Zephyr sped down the steep bank of Dean Street towards Newcastle’s quayside.

  In the first were MacDonald, Potts and Alec Bolam, the second CID car being filled with Jimmy Grainger and a few lads from the crime department.

  ‘It never entered my bloody head!’ Bolam had said this at least four times in the past thirty minutes. ‘That silly little business with Joe Blunt on Saturday night should ’a reminded me, but of course, Geordie was seen alive and well after it … Leadbitter’s report was just of a punch-up, not a murder.’

  ‘What did he do to get his dabs in Records?’ asked Potts.

  ‘False pretences in Stockton four years ago and larceny in Middlesbrough before that.’

  ‘Both Teesside – I thought he was a Tynesider,’ mused the superintendent.

  ‘He was – he just did all his thieving away from home, thank God. Came back to work for Stott about eighteen months past,’ answered Bolam.

  The car crossed the north approach to the Swing Bridge and turned into the dingy cobbled area beneath the High Level. The driver parked outside the little red brick mortuary, where the coroner’s officer, a flabby, lugubrious individual, waited with the key.

  He let them into the whitewashed cell where the body lay on the solitary slab beneath a piece of rubber sheet, which the coroner’s officer whipped off.

  ‘Well, what d’you think? Will that do for Geordie Armstrong?’

  MacDonald’s strong voice grated near Bolam’s ear and he hurried forward to look more closely at the remains.

  Interest in the importance of the identification fought with his natural revulsion. He looked at the wet, straggly hair, now cleaned of Tyne mud, and tried to ignore the horror of the face.

  ‘That’s like his hair – sort of blondy-ginger, with a bit of frizz still left in it,’ he agreed after a time.

  ‘What about his height?’ put in Potts.

  ‘Hard to say, lying on a slab,’ replied Alec critically.

  ‘Table’s exactly six feet long, if that’s any help,’ offered the paunchy coroner’s officer.

  Bolam eyed the slab and tried to measure up the body with his eye. ‘Five foot eight, I was told … that’d be about right.’

  The chief superintendent moved towards the door. ‘Come on, then. We can’t get away from the evidence of the prints. I just wanted someone who knew Armstrong in life to say that there was no reason why the body couldn’t be his.’

  Standing outside in the cold air of dusk, MacDonald held a council of war. ‘I’m afraid you’re in it right up to the neck now, Bolam … you know more about the Rising Sun and Jackie Stott than any of us, so you’ll have to drop the rest of the club racket and help sort this one out.’

  Bolam nodded – he could wish for nothing better.

  ‘What about the telegram, sir?’ he began. ‘That might give us a lead.’

  Jimmy Grainger cut in rather worriedly. ‘I hope that silly old sod of a landlord has kept it, sir … otherwise we’ll never know which Post Office it came from.’

  ‘Get over there right away – use one of those cars,’ ordered MacDonald. ‘If you get it, ring the Met for assistance in trying to trace its origin.’

  The detective sergeant and a constable whisked away, leaving the rest to cram into the Zephyr.

  As they drove through the city, MacDonald discussed their next moves with Bolam and Potts.

  ‘You’d better see the Press when you get back, Potts – you’re rather good at that,’ he added somewhat sarcastically. ‘Just give ’em the identity and ask for a general appeal for any news of his movements from Saturday night. Bolam, you’d better be tackling Stott, as soon as you can.’

  There was a sudden silence. ‘Reckon he did it, Alec?’ The change to Bolam’s Christian name went with an alteration in mood.

  Bolam thought a moment. ‘Yes, he could have done it. Jackie’s got a record for violence, and putting the boot in like this would be well up his street; Joe Blunt can be pretty tough too and he had a grudge against Geordie, by all accounts. I think it could have been either one of them.’

  ‘Or both,’ added the canny Scot. ‘But proving it is going to be a different thing, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. About the two hardest nuts in Newcastle to get a “voluntary” out of!’

  The chief nodded. ‘Think it was done at the Bigg Market or down on that gaming boat?’

  Bolam shook his head. ‘Not a clue … we’ll have to check Geordie’s movements every inch of the way. Perhaps you can get a team organized, sir; there’ll be a lot of legwork on this part of the case. I’ll get Grainger and a couple of DCs to start around the pubs as soon as he gets back from the West End.’

  MacDonald sucked thoughtfully at his now mercifully dead pipe. ‘This telegram angle is nasty – somebody with imagination thought of that. Knew that Geordie would be missed and goes to London to send a message to delay suspicion. Who would think of a thing like that?’

  ‘Rules Joe Blunt out, I reckon,’ said Bolam. ‘That punchy idiot wouldn’t think of it in a million years.’ ‘Could be Jackie?’

  ‘Yes – even for him, that’s good going. He’s not daft by a long way, but I didn’t think he’d be that subtle.’ MacDonald grunted. ‘Not so subtle now – if we find the sender, we’ve nailed him for murder.’

  Bolam’s face evidently registered his doubts, as MacDonald launched into a further explanation.

  ‘Look, man, you went to Jackie on the Monday morning, asking around for Geordie, to see if he wanted to lay a complaint against Joe Blunt for bashing him … so Jackie, if he killed him, would have to lay a false blanket on Geordie’s vanishing act, in case you went around to his digs.’

  Alec nodded. ‘Granted – but why only blame Jackie on those grounds. Anyone else who had rubbed out Armstrong would be just as anxious to cover up.’

  Mac snorted. ‘But they hadn’t been gingered up by you nosing about – I think it’s Stott,’ he ended, with a stubborn note to his voice that Bolam recognized only too well.

  ‘You get along and squeeze him, eh?’ went on the chief superintendent, ‘Find out if he or any of his boys went to London about that time. We’ll have to try and date that telegram.’ Another thought crossed his mind. ‘If you think Jackie’s not bright enough to have thought of that dodge, what about his Danish manager … could he be in it?’

  ‘I don’t think so, he’s always been on the straight,’ Alec answered patiently, as the car rolled into the Headquarters yard.

  As they split up, MacDonald fired a last salvo. ‘Try to figure how Papagos and company fit into this … see if you can fit them into Geordie’s troubles.’

  Alec muttered a profanity under his breath and looked at his watch … six o’clock. Time to slip home for a meal.

  But as soon as he put his foot inside the office, the phone rang. ‘Jimmy here – I’ve got a hold of the note, thank God.’

  ‘Got a date for it?’

  ‘Handed in at Charing Cross Road Post Office at 5 p.m. on Monday. I’ve already phoned the Met for assistance and they’r
e going to do their best, but they say that in a big, busy place like that one, it’ll be damn nigh impossible to find the clerk that handled it, let alone get one that remembers it. The only hope is to send down a photo of the suspects and see if anyone can pick it out.’

  Bolam scowled into the phone. ‘Well, hang on to that paper, whatever happens,’ he warned. ‘It may end up as an exhibit at Northumberland Assizes!’

  ‘What do you want me to do next?’ asked the detective sergeant.

  ‘Get back here, pick up a couple of lads and try to trace Geordie’s movements after Joe hammered him off the Mississippi last Saturday night.’

  Grainger’s voice came tinnily over the wires. ‘His landlord says he was here on Sunday – stayed in bed till one o’clock, then went out, never came back.’

  ‘Good, good! Get a statement from that old feller, before he forgets or drops dead or something!’

  He rang off, locked the drawers of his desk and headed for home.

  Detective Superintendent Potts’ press handout came too late for either the evening papers or the local television news. In spite of Jackie having his eyes glued to his screen and his reading of the Chronicle, he had no idea that the body had been identified when Alec Bolam came to see him just before eight o’clock.

  The club was officially open, but only one or two enthusiastic drinkers were there, already soaking at the bar when Bolam walked in and left his hat on the old soldier’s counter.

  Herbert Lumley gave him a grave, ‘Good evening. Nasty bit of trouble last night, sir,’ he offered.

  Alec looked through the glass doors as he stood with the doorkeeper. ‘You’ve done a good job of clearing up … still a bit of paraffin in the air, though.’

  ‘Yessir … Mr Hansen, he organized new carpets, furniture – the lot!’ Herbert grimaced fiercely. ‘If I could lay my hands on them bastards that did it – the boss thinks that they’ll be back to cause more trouble. He’s got Joe Blunt to round up some toughs to try to protect the place …’

  He stopped and looked apologetically at the policeman. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, sir.’

  Bolam slapped his shoulder. ‘That’s all right, Herbert. I guessed that Jackie wouldn’t take this lying down. If I were you, I’d look around for another job – this one isn’t going to last long, I’m afraid.’

  With this cryptic advice, he moved through the doors to have a closer look at the aftermath of the fire, before looking for Stott.

  Upstairs, Jackie was getting slightly drunk, while Thor Hansen and Laura Levine looked at him with curiosity, rather than distaste. Today he had drunk far more than usual, a thing he rarely did. Normally he kept a good grip on his cunning mind.

  ‘Why are you hitting the bottle so much, Jackie?’ snapped Laura. ‘What’s the idea of getting plastered? … I thought you would want to be on your toes, in case those protection fellows come busting in again.’

  He glowered at her, swaying across the room to stand menacingly above her. ‘I know what I’m bloody doing – if I wanna drink, I’ll have it, not ask your flaming permission!’

  Laura flushed and stood up. ‘OK, if that’s how you feel, to hell with you … I’m going back to my place.’

  She looked across at Thor, the silent spectator, as usual. ‘I’ll be back by ten thirty, Thor, for my spot – though why I bother to help keep you in business, God knows,’ she ended viciously, swinging back to Jackie.

  He made a rude noise at her and she stalked out to get her coat from the hall. Thor saw her out and gave her a surreptitious kiss on the back of the neck when the open door shielded them from Jackie’s eyes.

  The Dane came back into the room and looked thoughtfully at his employer. Jackie was planted in the middle of the lounge, feet apart, shoulders back and chest stuck out.

  ‘Thor, I’m in a hell of a mess – hell of a damn mess,’ he muttered throatily.

  The Dane murmured something non-committal. It was too soon to show his hand … he knew well enough what was bothering Jackie and it wasn’t the protection threats!

  ‘I can’t tell you, that’s the hell of it – just can’t tell you! … wish I could, you’d soon sort something out, but I don’t wanna drag you into it, see.’

  He said this in a tone that half-hoped that the Dane would encourage him into purging his soul of the truth.

  ‘Is it about Papagos?’ asked Hansen, just fishing.

  ‘Like hell it is,’ snorted Stott, ‘I can eat them alive, with one arm behind my back. No, Thor, it’s something else. I’ll get wrong with the coppers if it comes out. Real bad, this time.’

  Hansen nodded and moved towards the door. ‘I’d better get downstairs and see if everything is all right for opening time.’

  Jackie called him back from the hall. ‘I didn’t tell you yet, but Joe Blunt will be getting in some strong-arm boys, in case those yobs show up again. They’ll have a real nice welcome!’

  ‘Won’t do the custom any good, either way,’ commented Hansen, ‘Folk don’t like getting mixed up in punch-ups and police raids any more than paraffin bombs.’

  He thought he might as well lay the groundwork for Jackie’s disillusionment as soon as possible.

  Stott suddenly turned nasty. He hurled his empty whisky glass into the fireplace where it shattered into a hundred pieces. ‘Why the hell did this have to happen just now?’ he snarled. ‘Everything comes all at once!’

  ‘A good time to sell out, while you’re on top,’ suggested Thor warily, still trying to gauge the reaction. ‘Let somebody else buy the trouble from you – there’s bound to be an increase in the protection game now that it’s started.’

  He half expected Jackie to blow up again, but he did not. ‘You might have something there … the spot I’m in, and Laura gone sour … I could do with a nice beach in South America if I had forty thousand quid to go with it.’

  He kicked petulantly at a fragment of broken glass, then slumped down on to the settee.

  Thor went out quickly and closed the door after him.

  Downstairs, he found the now familiar figure of Detective Chief Inspector Bolam. ‘Waiting for more trouble, Mr Bolam?’ he asked pleasantly.

  Alec smiled without humour. ‘I’m waiting for my sergeant to show up. Is Jackie Stott about?’

  ‘Mr Stott is upstairs,’ replied the Dane, with the slightest of emphasis on the ‘Mister’.

  Alec looked around. ‘You’ve done a good job on the clearing up – but a few chairs and a new carpet won’t bring back all the frightened patrons.’

  Hansen smiled. ‘Memories are short – in a week or two, if there’s no more trouble, it may even be an asset. Some people like to think they’re living dangerously!’

  Bolam looked at him hard. ‘You don’t think that Papagos and his boys are going to leave it at that, do you? They’ll be back and I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to stop them.’

  Hansen rather got on his dignity. ‘I thought that’s what the police force was for.’

  ‘Oh, come off it! … we can’t do a thing until some further offence is committed. And what does it matter to the Greek if a few of his hired thugs are nicked? He can get plenty more by flashing a few quid under their noses.’

  Thor thought that he might get a little information for nothing.

  ‘Why can’t you arrest Papagos if you’re so sure he’s behind it?’

  Bolam looked at him with curiosity. ‘I’ve heard you’re honest, but surely you’re not all that naive! … we can’t touch them without evidence. They never soil their hands with rough stuff and no one will give evidence against them for fear of getting either themselves or their families carved up.’

  He turned as Jimmy Grainger came bounding up the stairs from the street, his raincoat flying open and a rakish trilby perched on the front of his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bolam gave a warning nod in the direction of the manager.

  ‘Mr Stott’s up in the flat, you said.’ He emphasized Jackie’s title in his turn,
with some sarcasm.

  They left the Dane standing in tall and elegant silence and made their way up the carpeted stairs. At the top, Jimmy gave a quick rundown on his investigations during the past couple of hours.

  ‘We’ve been around some of the pubs that Geordie used. We found that he was in the Cross Inn in Grainger Street early on Sunday evening, about seven thirty.’

  ‘There’s a lot more boozers you could have got around in that time,’ said Bolam uncharitably.

  ‘I know, we’ve got a lot to do yet … we learnt a bit more, though. In the Bobby Shaftoe, we had a word with the landlord – he hadn’t seen Armstrong for a week past, but he said that a feller called Archie Lee had been very thick with him recently.’

  Alec Bolam nodded thoughtfully. ‘I know Archie. I put him away for a year for “larceny by a servant” when I was in the East End. They used to call him the “Creeper” … he’s got form for housebreaking as well.’

  They kept their voices down, though it was unlikely that Jackie Stott would have his ears glued to the other side of his door.

  ‘Have you picked up Archie?’ asked Bolam.

  ‘No, we only got on to this a few minutes past … I sent a man over to the East End to find out where he’s living … the landlord only knew it was somewhere in Byker.’

  ‘A good start – we’ll need all the circumstantial stuff we can lay our hands on for this one. Come on, let’s beard the lion in his den!’

  He raised his fist and banged on the door. After the second attempt, there was some shuffling from the other side and the door was jerked partly open.

  Stott’s acne-scarred face glared out, his eyes unusually red-rimmed. His fiery complexion seemed to fade rapidly as he saw who his visitors were.

  ‘Wotcha want?’ he rumbled.

  ‘We’d like to come in and ask a few questions, Jackie.’ Bolam’s voice was as smooth as silk.

  ‘Thought we went over all that last night – I never heard of no Papagos nor Casella … and I don’t know nor bloody care who threw that bomb, so do me a favour and be off, will yer!’