Blood and Judgement by Michael Gilbert Page A

When none came he said, “How is Gover?”
    “I looked in at the hospital this morning,” said Petrella. “He’s still unconscious.”
    He himself had a big blue bruise in the middle of his forehead, and the corner of his right eye was held together by a strip of sticking plaster.
    “You don’t look more than two parts conscious yourself,” said Barstow amiably. He stared at the blotting paper in front of him. It was a difficult decision.
    “I’m going to ask Central to let us have someone to take on the reservoir case, until you’re free,” he said to Haxtell. “It’s turned into a gang matter now. If Howton and his friends are mixed up in it – and it looks as if they are – it’s as much the concern of S and D as it is of this division, so it won’t do any harm having someone from headquarters to co-ordinate it.” But he was arguing with himself, and the others knew it. For the head of one of the London districts to call in a detective superintendent from the Central pool at Scotland Yard is quite rare enough to be remarkable, and remarked upon.
    “It shouldn’t be for long,” said Haxtell. “I’m nearly through.”
    Barstow turned on Petrella. “Until they send someone else, you’re in charge. Don’t lose your head. There’s plenty of routine stuff to do. We won’t keep you.”
    Petrella removed himself. It was true that there was plenty to do, and he stood for a moment turning over in his mind just what it was he ought to do next. The reservoir could wait. If there were any clues there, they would keep for a bit longer. At the moment it was people, not things, that mattered.
    He told the duty sergeant where he was going and set out. The cold bright autumn weather was a tonic. It was impossible to stay depressed whilst feet rang on the hard bright pavement and the blood stirred under the lash of the north wind.
    Corum Street lies on the Chalk Farm side of Camden Town, in an area which had been slipping downhill for a hundred years with the stealthy inevitability of a glacier.
    He climbed the crumbling front steps of No. 39, stepped past a battery of empty milk bottles, and studied the row of cards and bells. He decided that “Flat D. Mrs Jean Fraser. Three rings” was the one he wanted. He rang three times and waited. Nothing happened for a long time.
    He pushed on the front door, which opened, revealing a strip of linoleum and a marble reproduction of the Winged Victory of Samothrace covered with a bee veil. The hallway was clean enough, and there was a faint smell of floor polish; but there was a much stronger smell of people; of too many people, living together, in too little space.
    Flat D was on the third floor. Petrella rang three more times and knocked three times, and breathed in three times and out three times, but Flat D remained unresponsive. He was on the point of retiring when the door opposite opened and an old man came out. He had white hair, a white moustache, and a look of forgotten campaigns.
    “You’re wanting Jean?” he said.
    “Yes,” said Petrella. “Mrs Fraser.”
    “She’s out all day. At work, you know.”
    “It’s rather important,” said Petrella. “I wonder – do you happen to know where she works?”
    The old man shook his head. He thought it was something to do with toffee. His mind was clearly on the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria.
    “She’s generally back by half past seven,” he said.
    Petrella thanked him and withdrew. He spent the rest of the morning in an endeavour, which he knew to be fruitless when he started on it, but which had to be carried through, to identify certain unidentifiable articles of clothing and footwear.
    It was early afternoon when he got back to Crown Road, and the first thing that caught his eye was a deep, fresh scratch on the linoleum in the passage, which seemed to indicate that some heavy furniture had been moved. Then he saw a white card pinned to the door of the interview room and he read, in neat