Blood and Judgement by Michael Gilbert Page B

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    D/SUPT. C O KELLAWAY
    D/SERGT. ALBERT DODDS
     
    The reinforcements had arrived.
    “They’re doing us proud,” said Petrella to Gwilliam.
    “We’ll be in the headlines all right now,” said Gwilliam.
    There are, and there always will be, certain detective officers whom the public takes to its heart. They are usually members of the Investigations Department at Scotland Yard which the newspapers style the Murder Squad, although its work is by no means confined to murders. Their appearance, and reappearance, in the press as they speed to the help of the provincial forces ensures them a steady flow of publicity; a matter which some of them deplore more than others. “Cris” Kellaway, as he was known to a million readers of the Daily and Sunday press, deplored it not at all. A big, handsome, black-haired, strong-chinned man, he would have made an excellent rear admiral of the blue-water school. He was popularly supposed to have, in manuscript form, no less than three volumes of his memoirs already written and only awaiting his departure from the Force to be released for publication.
    “He’s a great man for bull,” said Petrella. “But he seems to get results.”
    “Quite a change from gentle Gover,” agreed Gwilliam. “You’d better go and say hello. He wants to see you.”
    When Petrella went in, Kellaway was alone, but his presence filled the tiny room. He got up, squeezed out from behind his desk, shook hands with Petrella, and took a stand in front of the empty fireplace.
    “I’m glad to have you working with me,” he said. “I did a job with Luard the other day and he told me about you. He said you were the only man in the CID who could tell the difference between claret and burgundy without looking at the label on the bottle.”
    “Luard and I were at recruit school together,” said Petrella. “You’ve got to make allowances for that.”
    “I never make allowances,” said Kellaway, “for myself or anyone else. That’s why I’m so damned unpopular.” He grinned, showing teeth as big and as white as Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s. “Now about this case. I’ll tell you what I think – that way we shall all start by thinking the same.”
    Petrella could only recall, afterwards, that such was the impact of Kellaway’s personality that at the time this sounded like sense. What Kellaway thought, his subordinates would naturally think too.
    “This is a gang killing. Howton and his friends. The Camden Town mob, or whatever fancy name they’re using now. They’re all the same, these mobs. First they throw their weight about with people who are scared of them, and they get away with it. And that makes them feel good. Then they go a bit further, and perhaps they get away with that. Now they’ve used their feet on a police officer, which means they’re asking for trouble. If Charlie Gover dies, they know just what’s coming to them. And I’m here to see they get it, good and hot and strong.”
    Petrella was on the point of asking what the connection was between the assault on Gover and the death of Rosa Ritchie, but it occurred to him, in time, that would be taken as impertinence. And he had no desire at all to be impertinent. He found Kellaway as exhilarating as rough wine drunk in the heat of the day.
    “I’m going to split this business into two parts,” he went on. “You and Dodds – you know Albert?”
    “Yes, I know Dodds.”
    “I’m sure you’ll get on well together – you’re to tackle it from the reservoir end. Go through the whole place, take it to pieces. Question everyone in sight. I needn’t tell you. Meanwhile I’m going to work at the other end – I’m going after Howton. If we both do our jobs properly, then sooner or later” – the superintendent laid his strong, white hands on the desk in front of him, index fingers extended – “the ends will meet.” As the tips of the fingers came closer Petrella would not have been in the least surprised to