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    Good And Justice: (Writing as JJ Marric)
    Good And Justice: (Writing as JJ Marric)
    Good And Justice: (Writing as JJ Marric)
    Ebook233 pages2 hours

    Good And Justice: (Writing as JJ Marric)

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    A Cabinet Minister and others suffer food poisoning and foul play may be at work. A rapist killer escaped from prison. A baby lost at childbirth and the mother in danger – whilst her husband makes a very pointed threat to the Doctor involved. Were the threats idle? Meanwhile, there is rape, violence, gangs of thieves and a variety of petty misdemeanours to be dealt with. Who better to cope with all of this than George Gideon of Scotland Yard, whose courage, integrity, dependability and old fashioned common sense is all undoubted, but he has troubles of his own ….

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Stratus
    Release dateJan 31, 2013
    ISBN9780755134267
    Good And Justice: (Writing as JJ Marric)
    Author

    John Creasey

    Born in Surrey, England, into a poor family as seventh of nine children, John Creasey attended a primary school in Fulham, London, followed by The Sloane School. He did not follow his father as a coach maker, but pursued various low-level careers as a clerk, in factories, and sales. His ambition was to write full time and by 1935 he achieved this, some three years after the appearance of his first crime novel ‘Seven Times Seven’. From the outset, he was an astonishingly prolific and fast writer, and it was not unusual for him to have a score, or more, novels published in any one year. Because of this, he ended up using twenty eight pseudonyms, both male and female, once explaining that booksellers otherwise complained about him totally dominating the ‘C’ section in bookstores. They included: Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, JJ Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York. As well as crime, he wrote westerns, fantasy, historical fiction and standalone novels in many other genres. It is for crime, though, that he is best known, particularly the various detective ‘series’, including Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Baron, The Toff, and Inspector Roger West, although his other characters and series should not be dismissed as secondary, as the likes of Department ‘Z’ and Dr. Palfrey have considerable followings amongst readers, as do many of the ‘one off’ titles, such as the historical novel ‘Masters of Bow Street’ about the founding of the modern police force. With over five hundred books to his credit and worldwide sales approaching one hundred million, and translations into over twenty-five languages, Creasey grew to be an international sensation. He travelled widely, promoting his books in places as far apart as Russia and Australia, and virtually commuted between the UK and USA, visiting in all some forty seven states. As if this were not enough, he also stood for Parliament several times as a Liberal in the 1940’s and 50’s, and an Independent throughout the 1960’s. In 1966, he founded the ‘All Party Alliance’, which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum, and was also involved with the National Savings movement; United Europe; various road safety campaigns, and famine relief. In 1953 Creasey founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. He won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for his novel ‘Gideon’s Fire’ and in 1969 was given the ultimate Grand Master Award. There have been many TV and big screen adaptations of his work, including major series centred upon Gideon, The Baron, Roger West and others. His stories are as compelling today as ever, with one of the major factors in his success being the ability to portray characters as living – his undoubted talent being to understand and observe accurately human behaviour. John Creasey died at Salisbury, Wiltshire in 1973. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

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      Book preview

      Good And Justice - John Creasey

      Copyright & Information

      Good and Justice

      (Gideon's Drive)

      First published in 1976

      © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1976-2013

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

      The right of John Creaseyto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

      This edition published in 2013 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

      Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

      Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

      Typeset by House of Stratus.

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

      This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

      Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

      House of Stratus Logo

      www.houseofstratus.com

      About the Author

      Jophn Creasey

      John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

      Creasy wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

      Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

      Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

      He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

      1

      MOOD

      I HOPE he won’t be late tonight, Kate Gideon thought; tonight of all nights. The words went through her mind as she stood in front of a tall dressing-table mirror, the centre one of triple mirrors in a burr-walnut suite darkened only slightly with the twenty-five years it had been in this room: hers and George’s. She tipped the mirror so that she could see herself in a straight reflection; and then moved the side mirrors so that she could the better see her left and right profile.

      As objectively as a woman could, she studied the result.

      On the whole, she was content with it.

      She was used to her looks and it did not greatly concern her that she was a handsome woman, as indeed she was, with dark hair showing remarkably little grey for a woman in her early fifties. It was good when George, or any one of the children, for that matter, told her she had lovely grey eyes, but she was no longer flattered by such compliments: or at least, very seldom. She looked now for the added or the deepening lines at her eyes, the corners of her lips, her forehead; and she really did not think she had acquired more – at least not many more! – since she had last allowed herself time to dress and make up so as to go out with her husband.

      It was twenty minutes to seven on a pleasant August evening; he was to be here at a quarter to, so he was not yet late. They were going to dine out for a variety of special anniversaries: one for their wedding, weeks past now; one for his birthday which had been at least two months ago. One, the anniversary of the day when they had moved into the solidly-built house in Fulham, a residential part near the Hurlingham Polo grounds and tennis courts. Then, it had been much as now; the red brick had mellowed and toned down slightly, like all the others in this terrace of houses, forty-four on this side of the street each with a solid wall dividing it from its neighbour on either side. Grey slate roofs, painted woodwork mostly black and white or green and white; coloured glass panels in each front door, tiles in vari-coloured patterns on the porch and on the path leading from the iron gate which led from the street itself.

      Neither large nor luxurious, but highly respectable and worth, today, ten times the fifteen hundred pounds Gideon had paid for it; it was a kind of symbol of Gideon himself.

      She went to the sash cord windows in the small bay, and looked out. The cars of their neighbours were parked nearby. A few couples were already going out. The homeward rush was over, then, but George—

      The clock in the dining-room struck the quarter to, melodiously in a homely imitation of Big Ben. Da-da-da-dahhh, da-da-da-dahhh, da-da-da-dahhh, the last note echoing faintly. She watched traffic passing the end of Harrington Street, thinking: "He is late."

      Then she laughed at herself and told the big room: "Minutes don’t count."

      But as she knew well, minutes often counted very much indeed in the life of a senior officer of London’s Metropolitan Police, the Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department and a man who had won the distinction, over more years than they had been married, of becoming the most renowned and dependable policeman in all England. George himself was probably the only one on the Force who did not believe this; unless, of course, he took it for granted.

      But it was unlikely that he thought about it at all, merely going on with his job, as he always had. Whatever the cost, to him or to her, he had been a policeman first, husband, lover and father afterwards.

      She caught her breath.

      There was an unexpected whiff of criticism in this reflection, and it pulled her up short, made her ask herself whether it was really true. She repeated the words in a whisper which came back to her gently from the shadowed room.

      A policeman first, husband, lover and father afterwards.

      Why on earth should such a thought enter her head now? Because he was two or three minutes late for an evening date which was probably of much greater importance to her than to him? Of course if she really thought that, thought he was taking her out simply to please or to humour her, then she could understand the unexpected trend of her thoughts: unexpected because they had come so suddenly and no vestige of them had shadowed her getting ready for the evening.

      Once he was here, they would vanish.

      No, she said aloud to herself, they won’t vanish. They’ll fade into the background and stay there painlessly for weeks, perhaps for months.

      Painlessly?

      If he were seriously delayed, if he had to call and tell her the evening was off, or seriously late, it would hurt, whether there was justification in that or not. For some reason she simply did not understand, she was feeling more strongly about – against – the lot of a policeman’s wife than she had for a long time, certainly for years. When she made herself think back she remembered that in the past few months he had been forced to call off an evening out, or a much-anticipated family evening at home, more often than she could recall since he had been promoted from Chief Detective Superintendent George Gideon to Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department, the highest step he could go; or as high as he was ever likely to allow himself to go.

      She looked out of the window again, saw no sign of him, and went back to the dressing-table. She gave a perfunctory look at herself in the mirror, and another as she picked up pale, biscuit-coloured gloves of thinnest leather and a matching handbag. She wore a russet brown suit, not quite right for her grey eyes and colouring, but fitting perfectly; Junoesque, they had called her at school, and Junoesque she was still. If the reflections pleased her, her mood did not, and it was the mood which had the upper hand again when she reached the foot of the stairs.

      George must be ten or fifteen minutes late.

      The stairs, behind her, were steep, carpeted from wall to banisters, like the landing above the four bedrooms, of which only theirs was now occupied. That could have something to do with how she was feeling, of course: loneliness. Penelope, their youngest daughter, was touring Australia with a BBC Symphony Orchestra and would be away for several weeks, returning to be married almost at once. Malcolm, their youngest son, was also away, touring Europe with a group of youths about his own age. When he came back he was going to ask them if they minded if he shared a flat with one or two friends; and they, she and George, would have to say that of course they didn’t mind, that he must live his own life. The old, trite truisms; true, certainly, but leaving the emptiness of the heart hollow and hurting.

      Why was her mind so full of the thought of hurt tonight?

      Was it because she had literally nothing to do, no one to prepare for? She walked listlessly through the living-room, into the bright, recently refurbished kitchen which had a window overlooking the long garden. The light was good enough for her to see the formal grass on one side, the crazy-paving she and the boys had laid, and an herbaceous border bright with flowers. Everything was spick and span out there, even the vegetable patch beyond lawn and flowers, divided by a box hedge, over which could be seen the scarlet blossom of runner beans.

      The big refrigerator hummed.

      The kitchen glistened and glowed.

      I haven’t enough to do! Kate Gideon exclaimed suddenly.

      A car door slammed outside.

      There he is! she exclaimed, and in spite of herself her heart leapt, she snatched another glance in a mirror on the passage wall, saw George’s shadow approaching the coloured glass panels of the front door, and then with a clang of disappointment, realised that it wasn’t George; whoever approached was too small.

      He—wasn’t—coming.

      She steeled herself to show no expression except a superficial pleasantness as, almost simultaneously with the ringing of the bell, she opened the door. In the porch, backing away in anticipation of her approach, was a rather short, elderly man whom she knew well by sight, and who had often driven her and Gideon. A messenger. He had a lined and leathery face and deep-set blue eyes which kindled at sight of her, no doubt at all in admiration.

      Good-evening, Mrs. Gideon.

      Hallo, Mr. Ferris.

      The Commander’s very sorry—she had to school herself not to show her disappointment—but he got delayed at the last minute, and won’t have time to come home and then get to the restaurant in time. So he sent me for you, and he’ll meet you there.

      Oh, she said, and gave a little breathless laugh before confessing. I thought for a moment he— She didn’t finish, but turned into the hall. Come in – I won’t be two or three minutes.

      I’ll wait in the car, said Ferris, if that’s all the same with you. Better not stay double-parked for long even outside the Commander’s house. These young coppers today, no respect for their elders!

      He turned away, smiling; and she carried a picture of a humorous mouth and twinkling eyes. She went into the front room, which was the biggest in the house except for their bedroom immediately above it, and stood there for a few seconds, quite absurdly affected and full of self-reproach. Why had she felt so?

      Did it matter, now that she was on top of the world?

      She went out only a minute or two after Ferris, who was standing by his big, old-fashioned car, one used to carry the Yard’s VIPs to appointments. Across the road she saw a small red sports car with the word ‘Doctor’ on the windscreen: and it made her pause. This was a new doctor in the neighbourhood, Kelworthy, already making himself popular as one of the ‘old sort’, which meant that he made house calls promptly and spared time to talk with his patients.

      Why was he there this evening?

      She knew that the young girl who lived in a flat in the house almost opposite was within days of having her first child; it wouldn’t have surprised her to see a taxi; or the girl and her husband going off in a neighbour’s car, for they had none of their own. But the doctor—

      Is there something the matter? asked Ferris.

      Yes, she said, but I’m not sure what. You can wait a few moments, can’t you? Without waiting for him to say yes or no she walked across the smooth surface of the road, with a grace which Ferris, who had always had a soft spot for the Commander’s wife, watched appreciatively.

      The house was owned by a Mrs. Jameson, whose husband had died leaving her very little to live on; with the help of relatives she had made three flats in the house, ground, top floor and attic, and lived mostly on the rents. She was older than Kate by twenty years and had lived in Harrington Street for about the length of that time. Outwardly, the house was exactly the same as all the others in the street, but inside the porch were three bell pushes and three names. She pressed the bottom one next to the name Jameson.

      There was a longer delay than she had expected.

      If the old lady was out, would another ring disturb the neighbours in the house? Did—

      There was a flurry of footsteps, and the door opened and Mrs. Jameson stood there, her eyes bright as with tears, her grey hair untidy, her blouse sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Just for a moment, she paused, not recognising Kate; then, on recognition, she burst out: Oh, the poor lamb, she’s lost her baby! She’s lost her baby! And the doctor’s up there fighting for the poor lamb’s life. I thought you were the ambulance, it’s supposed to be here by now.

      As if answering her, the ringing of an ambulance bell sounded in the distance; and at the same moment understanding of her own mood fell upon Kate Gideon like a thunderclap. She was twice appalled: by the awful thing that had been happening in this house while she had been going over her grievances – yes, that was what she had been doing: and by the subconscious power of her own thinking.

      She and George had lost a child.

      Not in childbirth, but soon afterwards. Not in this street, but in a top flat in a house not very far away. She had so desperately wanted George to come back, for she was fearful of being alone with the child, if death came. But George had been out, working; and she had been left alone.

      She was not needed here and would only be in the way when the ambulance men came in. She asked, of course: Could she help, do anything at all.

      "No, no,

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