the street. I’ll go round.”
“All right,” said Gwilliam. He put his shoulder to the front door and pushed it open. Petrella had time to see this, then he was running, Cobley with him.
“Down here,” he said.
It was a narrow alley, ending in high gates, with some sign painted on them. Cobley made a back, hoisted Petrella up, and was pulled up in turn. They dropped into a littered yard.
“The canal bank’s through here somewhere,” said Petrella. He wished he had brought his torch.
“Look out you don’t fall in then,” said Cobley. He was less excited than Petrella. They felt their way along the narrow cinder path. “It’s the sixth house along. I counted.”
Suddenly they were aware that figures were moving, in the dark, ahead of them, but away from them.
Things happened then, in no sort of order. Petrella jumped forward, felt an opponent, and grabbed him. As he grabbed, he slipped, and they came down together in a heap. Someone then stepped on both of them. Cobley, by the weight of him.
There was a pounding of footsteps ahead and a muffled roar as action was joined farther up the bank. Then the toe of a boot caught Petrella squarely in the middle of the forehead and the next thing he knew was that he was on his hands and knees, in the darkness, being sick.
As the nausea passed, he felt hands under his arms lifting him up.
“Are you all right, Sergeant?”
“What’s happened?” said Petrella. He found that he could just stand.
“Two of ’em,” said Cobley. “One of ’em knocked you cold. I pitched the other one into the canal. Just to see if he could swim.”
“I’m all right now,” said Petrella. The world around him was steadying, and if he concentrated he could focus. “Did he?” he added.
“Did he what?”
“Swim.”
“I’m afraid so. I heard someone get out the other side. Your man scarpered too.”
“We’d better go in now,” said Petrella. The particular stable door they had come to lock seemed to have been kicked in their faces, but they might as well finish the job.
Cobley found the gate and pushed it open. They were in a dark, stone-paved enclosure, which smelt of beer. Ahead of them was more darkness, lit by a dim internal light. A long way away a loud argument was going on, and Petrella recognized Gwilliam’s voice.
“The back door’s open, Sergeant,” said Cobley softly. He touched it with his foot and it swung wide. They could see the shadowy outlines of a room, lit by a dying coal fire.
“Try the light,” said Petrella.
There came a booming from the middle distance.
“I don’t care whether it’s a private room or not.” It was Gwilliam’s voice. “Will you open that door or do I kick it down?”
“It’s all right, Dai,” shouted Petrella. “Don’t wreck the place. It’s too late. They’ve gone.”
Then two things happened. Cobley, on their side, found the room switch and turned on the light. From the other side, Sergeant Gwilliam put his broad foot to the door and kicked the lock out. The door burst inwards, narrowly missing Petrella.
In the light they saw a shabby parlour, in disorder, furniture overturned and glass broken; and Detective Inspector Gover lying in the middle of the worn carpet, his head at an awkward angle, pillowed on a damp, dark patch of his own still-running blood.
5
Kellaway
“I don’t see any alternative,” said Barstow. “Heaven knows, it isn’t a thing I like doing, going outside the division and the district, but if they leave me short of my proper establishment, and send one of my only two available divisional inspectors to America on exchange – and what he’s going to learn there, you tell me – and the other goes and gets himself kicked on the head, like a rookie–”
“Perhaps I could–” said Haxtell.
“Certainly not. You’re nearly past the post with Corinne Hart. It’d be stupid to put someone else on to that now.” He paused, and glared round as if waiting for contradiction.
“All right,” said Gwilliam. He put his shoulder to the front door and pushed it open. Petrella had time to see this, then he was running, Cobley with him.
“Down here,” he said.
It was a narrow alley, ending in high gates, with some sign painted on them. Cobley made a back, hoisted Petrella up, and was pulled up in turn. They dropped into a littered yard.
“The canal bank’s through here somewhere,” said Petrella. He wished he had brought his torch.
“Look out you don’t fall in then,” said Cobley. He was less excited than Petrella. They felt their way along the narrow cinder path. “It’s the sixth house along. I counted.”
Suddenly they were aware that figures were moving, in the dark, ahead of them, but away from them.
Things happened then, in no sort of order. Petrella jumped forward, felt an opponent, and grabbed him. As he grabbed, he slipped, and they came down together in a heap. Someone then stepped on both of them. Cobley, by the weight of him.
There was a pounding of footsteps ahead and a muffled roar as action was joined farther up the bank. Then the toe of a boot caught Petrella squarely in the middle of the forehead and the next thing he knew was that he was on his hands and knees, in the darkness, being sick.
As the nausea passed, he felt hands under his arms lifting him up.
“Are you all right, Sergeant?”
“What’s happened?” said Petrella. He found that he could just stand.
“Two of ’em,” said Cobley. “One of ’em knocked you cold. I pitched the other one into the canal. Just to see if he could swim.”
“I’m all right now,” said Petrella. The world around him was steadying, and if he concentrated he could focus. “Did he?” he added.
“Did he what?”
“Swim.”
“I’m afraid so. I heard someone get out the other side. Your man scarpered too.”
“We’d better go in now,” said Petrella. The particular stable door they had come to lock seemed to have been kicked in their faces, but they might as well finish the job.
Cobley found the gate and pushed it open. They were in a dark, stone-paved enclosure, which smelt of beer. Ahead of them was more darkness, lit by a dim internal light. A long way away a loud argument was going on, and Petrella recognized Gwilliam’s voice.
“The back door’s open, Sergeant,” said Cobley softly. He touched it with his foot and it swung wide. They could see the shadowy outlines of a room, lit by a dying coal fire.
“Try the light,” said Petrella.
There came a booming from the middle distance.
“I don’t care whether it’s a private room or not.” It was Gwilliam’s voice. “Will you open that door or do I kick it down?”
“It’s all right, Dai,” shouted Petrella. “Don’t wreck the place. It’s too late. They’ve gone.”
Then two things happened. Cobley, on their side, found the room switch and turned on the light. From the other side, Sergeant Gwilliam put his broad foot to the door and kicked the lock out. The door burst inwards, narrowly missing Petrella.
In the light they saw a shabby parlour, in disorder, furniture overturned and glass broken; and Detective Inspector Gover lying in the middle of the worn carpet, his head at an awkward angle, pillowed on a damp, dark patch of his own still-running blood.
5
Kellaway
“I don’t see any alternative,” said Barstow. “Heaven knows, it isn’t a thing I like doing, going outside the division and the district, but if they leave me short of my proper establishment, and send one of my only two available divisional inspectors to America on exchange – and what he’s going to learn there, you tell me – and the other goes and gets himself kicked on the head, like a rookie–”
“Perhaps I could–” said Haxtell.
“Certainly not. You’re nearly past the post with Corinne Hart. It’d be stupid to put someone else on to that now.” He paused, and glared round as if waiting for contradiction.
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