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    Hit and Run
    Hit and Run
    Hit and Run
    Ebook256 pages3 hours

    Hit and Run

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    Two routine car accidents raise little suspicion, but then a third appears to be attempted murder. When a fourth occurs it is time to involve Inspector Roger ‘Handsome’ West of Scotland Yard, its most diligent and down to earth detective. A ruthless killer is on the loose, but why use this method and what do the victims have in common? Mrs. Bray, for instance, had just been crossing the road quite randomly, holding her child’s hand as she realised she was going to die.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Stratus
    Release dateMay 1, 2015
    ISBN9780755137435
    Hit and Run
    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

      Hit and Run - John Creasey

      Chapter Two

      The Second Crime

      Rosemary Jackson did not know Eunice Marsden, and had very little in common with her. True, she was married; but so newly married that she still had to shake herself to remember – during the day – that it was true. She was twenty-three, fair-haired, pretty and, in the opinion of all of Charles Jackson’s relations, nothing like good enough for him. Still, he’d married and they accepted her – and they had to grant one thing, she showed no signs of wanting to be too extravagant. That was as well, for if Charles had a fault, it was that he was on the near side with money. He could have afforded something much better than the tiny, two-roomed mews flat they had, even though it was in a fashionable part of London.

      At least, it was central.

      It was also charming. Rosemary had unsuspected talents including an eye for décor, and by closely studying the more expensive magazines she had carried out the decoration of the flat in a way which charmed everyone who saw it.

      My dear, cooed her only sister-in-law, you ought to take interior decorating up as a career.

      "I know, returned Rosemary, sweetly. I would if I hadn’t already got a career."

      "You have, dear?"

      Marriage, darling, said Rosemary, still sweetly.

      As her sister-in-law was in the middle thirties, and aggressively unwed, that was unkind. There was in fact much more to Rosemary than many people suspected, and among other assets she had the quality of patience. That was the first time she had scratched back after eighteen months of long-suffering endurance.

      She had been married six months now, and was feeling much more sure of herself and absolutely sure that, where most of her in-laws were concerned, Charles took her side.

      Charles Jackson was fifteen years older than his Rosemary, a junior partner on the legal firm of Merridew, Barker, Kyle and Merridew, and he was expected to have a glowing future. He had recently been Secretary of a Government Committee investigating Drug Addiction in Great Britain – a committee partly of politicians and partly of doctors and pharmaceutical manufacturers. The report, which Jackson had drawn up, was a model of concise reporting; it had helped to make his name.

      Secretly, Rosemary believed that he should have studied for the Bar, for he was an excellent speaker, could marshal his facts quickly and had a devastating repartee. She had often heard him in the magistrates’ courts, nearly always speaking for the defence of someone who was pathetically in need of help.

      There were already those who whispered: Charles Jackson, defender of lost causes.

      Rosemary knew all this.

      Rosemary was deeply, tremendously, magnificently happy, and believed that Charles was, too.

      Two months after the death of Mrs. Bray, about which Rosemary had read casually in the Evening Globe, she had finished what little work needed doing at the flat. It was eleven o’clock and one of the London winter’s rare golden mornings, without a trace of fog, rain or snow. One window of the long, narrow living-room overlooked the garden of a large house in the square just round the corner, and the sun was striking the leafless branches of two silver birch trees, and made the bark of the trees look as if they had been coated with luminous paint. A square lawn was immaculate, and two beds of wallflowers were sturdy and dark green.

      I’m going out for a walk, Rosemary decided.

      She slipped into a sealskin coat, knowing it would be cold, and in any case it was unthinkable not to wear Charles’s main wedding present. As she pinned on a small hat trimmed with the same kind of black fur, she smiled at her reflection and her clear, gay blue eyes, then hurried towards the flight of stairs which led to the front door. Immediately below the flat was the garage – in fact, on the stairs there was a slight smell of petrol.

      At the foot of the stairs she heard footsteps outside. The door was of solid wood, without a window, so she had no idea who was coming. Nothing was more embarrassing than having a door opened in one’s face when one was about to ring, so she waited.

      No one rang.

      The letter-box was pushed open, a letter – two letters – came briskly through, and as they dropped, the letter-box clacked shut.

      From Australia, Rosemary said, studying the postage stamp, designed with a kangaroo, on one letter. It was addressed to Charles. That will be from his friend Masters, Charles will be delighted.

      She looked at the other.

      The address was typewritten, the postmark was London W.1, and it was addressed to her.

      Few letters came addressed to her quite so formally; most of those she received were hand-written. It was dark in the little hall, and she wanted to see the sun again, so she opened the door and went out, still holding the letters. The sun shone brightly on her face, on the cobbles, on the chauffeur polishing a Rolls-Royce on the other side of the mews – a middle-aged man who stopped work for a moment, just for the satisfaction of looking at her.

      People did that often.

      Good morning, said Rosemary, and won a ready smile. She slipped the letter from Australia into the pocket of her coat – Charles knew how she loved pockets – and, walking slowly, almost purring in the warmth of the sun, and telling herself that it would be divine in the park, she opened her letter.

      It was on plain paper, there was no address and no signature, and there was only one sentence.

      Your husband is unfaithful to you.

      Rosemary stopped moving so suddenly she might have banged against a wall. She stared at the single sentence, as if by doing that she could make it disappear. Your husband is unfaithful to you, came so brutally, and the ink was dark and the sentence black, as if already meant for mourning.

      Then: Nonsense! breathed Rosemary.

      She screwed the letter up, but kept it in her hand, and began to walk more quickly, hardly knowing where she was going. First the shock agitated her, and then it made her angry. She clutched the letter more tightly, as if wishing it was the neck of the person who had written it.

      "Despicable nonsense," she breathed, and quickened her pace still more, until she disappeared from the mews. There the chauffeur, a little puzzled by the way she had behaved, went thoughtfully back to his work.

      She had to cross a main road to reach the bus, which would take her to Hyde Park. She didn’t cross the road. The typewritten accusation seemed to hover in front of her. Of course it was nonsense, she was a fool even to be upset, it was wicked nonsense, but—

      Why had anyone thought it worth sending?

      Who could want to make her unhappy?

      She crossed the road, after all; twenty minutes later, a little before twelve o’clock, she was in the park. It was really like spring, except that the leaves weren’t out, and the branches of the trees against the sky looked like the webs of an army of monstrous spiders. The sun was really warm, and she loosened her coat. A few people were actually sitting on the grass, hundreds were walking, the sounds of traffic seemed a long way off. She went across the fields without thinking where she was going, anxious only to be on her own, asking the same question over and over again.

      Why should anyone send such a despicable message?

      She looked at the envelope again; there was no mistake, this was intended for Mrs. Charles Jackson.

      What would Charles say?

      Rosemary began to reason with herself. It was the kind of situation which one sometimes read about but which presented startling problems when it struck right home. Ought she to tell Charles? He was extremely busy at the office, he took his work very much to heart, and she knew that he was preoccupied about a murder case that he was helping to prepare for Old Nod, a leading Queen’s Counsellor. In fact, he had come home an hour or so later than usual several nights last week.

      She winced.

      No! she said, in a sharp voice.

      One of the grazing sheep, near her although she had not noticed, seemed to hear what she said, and looked up at her.

      It’s ludicrous, I shan’t show it to him, she said. I shall take no notice of it.

      But she prayed that Charles would not telephone to say that he would be late again tonight.

      He did not.

      He was light-hearted and natural, had not even brought any work home; the briefing was practically ready, and he was to see Old Nod tomorrow.

      Rosemary did not tell him about the letters.

      Next morning, while Charles was shaving and Rosemary was getting breakfast, she heard the postman – the morning man gave a sharp rat-tat. Usually she left it to Charles to collect the post, but suddenly she felt on edge, and could not wait. There were several letters. Charles Jackson Esq., … Esq. … Esq. … Mrs. Charles Jackson.

      It was almost the same envelope, might have been the very one, had she not screwed it up. She stared at it, and turned towards the door, her lips set very tightly and her jaws hurting because she was gritting her teeth so much. She moved slowly. She could hear the bacon sizzling, but it no longer seemed to matter. Half-way up the stairs she put the letter down the neck of her dress, and then dropped one which she hadn’t seen before, and which had been immediately beneath the hateful one.

      Charles Jackson Esq.

      But this was very different.

      This was a small, pale-blue envelope, the handwriting was rounded and feminine, and there was a faint perfume. Nothing like this had ever come here before. She reached the top of the stairs, and Charles called out: Two minutes, pet!

      All right! She hurried up.

      He was bustling this morning, quite hopelessly preoccupied with a coming briefing session with Old Nod – it was his first direct encounter with the great man. He put the letters on the table by his place, and hurried to eat his breakfast. He was obviously surprised that it wasn’t ready, and Rosemary sensed that he would easily fuss this morning. Normally she would have fooled with him, but she wasn’t in any mood for fooling; the corner of the letter poked into her breast.

      I won’t be a jiffy, she said, you go and look at your post.

      Oh, no, he said, "I’m not thinking about anything else until Old Nod’s blasted me out of his chambers. ‘The secret of success’, as our Mr. Merridew Senior so often says, ‘is concentration, my boy, concentration. When you have any matter of extreme importance, give it all your attention, don’t dissipate thought or energy. Concentrate.’" He was a good mimic, and Rosemary laughed in spite of herself – and in spite of the fact that he had thrust all the letters into his pocket, including the scented one, which could so easily be a billet doux.

      The coming session didn’t impair his appetite. He kissed her as firmly as usual. One moment she was afraid that he was going to notice her letter, but he didn’t seem to – and he hurried downstairs and waved back from the front door, then went hurrying out, a rather slim man, slightly above medium height, wearing a black coat and striped grey trousers and a bowler, and carrying a black briefcase.

      She took out her letter.

      If you don’t believe it, search the pockets of his light-grey suit.

      At first she told herself that she would do nothing of the kind, but would wait until Charles came home tonight, and show him both the letters. Within five minutes, her resolve weakened. She went into the bedroom. There was only just room for the double bed, the dressing-table and few oddments of light-oak furniture; the big wardrobe was built into the wall. She pushed the sliding doors open vigorously, knowing exactly where to find Charles’s light-grey suit.

      There it hung.

      She touched the hanger, but didn’t take the suit off the rail. She felt mean and sneaky, as when at school she had sometimes felt mean and sneaky; and she hesitated for a long time. Then, she said in a clear voice: I won’t be able to rest until I’ve looked.

      She took the suit off the hanger, and carried it into the big room, in front of the window, still reluctant to feel inside the pockets. It was well pressed, she’d actually hung it up for him after he had last worn it, and checked that it didn’t need pressing. He was very neat with his clothes, almost a dandy.

      She held the coat up, and began to go through the pockets, with her lips set tightly and her eyes narrowed as she watched her fingers, as if condemning them for an act of treachery. The first thing she discovered was the last she expected; a faint perfume, immediately recognisable as the same as the perfume on the letter. It came from inside one of the jacket pockets as the lining rucked up a little; the perfume was noticeable on her fingers, too.

      There were also traces of powder on her fingers, and none of her compacts leaked; not that she ever asked Charles to carry a compact for her.

      His pale-grey silk handkerchief was still neatly arranged in the breast pocket. She took it out. A smear of lipstick showed up quite unmistakably, and there were other smears, probably of lipstick which had been rubbed off – his lips, his cheek, his forehead, anywhere.

      Now she had to make a desperate decision; to confront him with this, or to wait.

      Roger West knew nothing at all about this, at the time. Yet he was implicated, indirectly, for he had been in charge of the investigation into the murder of an old lady whose nephew now stood arraigned, and whose trial was due next week at the Old Bailey, with Old Nod leading for the defence. It was not one of the Yard’s strongest cases, and the Assistant Commissioner, the Public Prosecutor and Roger West were of one mind about it. None had any doubt that the nephew was guilty, but there were serious weaknesses in the chain of evidence against him; properly exploited, those weaknesses could get him off. Old Nod had a genius for finding weaknesses even where there was none, and when he had learned who was to lead the defence, Roger had groaned.

      He knew the firm of Merridew, Barker, Kyle and Merridew, and had been in the Magistrates’ Court on a number of occasions when Charles Jackson had appeared for some defendant or other, usually on trivial charges. Jackson was one of the few solicitors who stood out in preparing a case, and it was already evident that he much preferred working for the defence than the prosecution.

      He’s going to give us a lot of trouble, Roger prophesied to the Assistant Commissioner that morning. When this job’s over I’d like to meet him, try to find out what makes him tick.

      You mean whether he’s just a clever beggar, or whether he’s a man with a mission, the A.C. said dryly. Don’t know which type I like least. Never mind what drives him, you try to block up those holes in our case, I don’t want that nephew to get off.

      This third crime, then, began quietly and poisonously, and in the beginning Rosemary Jackson did not really understand that it was a crime, and also part of a pattern. All she knew was that until the first letter had arrived she had been unbelievably happy; now it was difficult to be normal when Charles came home in the evening. She didn’t know how she was going to face him without telling him about the letters, but if they were wrong, if – even if – the evidence she had found could be proved false, she would have disturbed and upset him at a time when it was essential for him to concentrate.

      The fourth crime was very different from any of the others, except in one way.

      It was violent.

      It also concerned a woman, a middle-aged, aggressive, married woman, a great do-gooder in the north London suburb where she lived, with a pungent tongue and a reputed fearlessness in expressing her opinions from the Bench. For she was Chairman of the Justices at Ligate, and a powerful woman, too.

      On the night of the crime she was alone in her house overlooking a heath, completely unafraid and unsuspecting.

      Chapter Three

      The Third Crime

      The man approached the magistrate’s house by the gateway which led to the garage and the back. It was a dark entrance, for the nearest street-lamp was a hundred yards away, no other houses were near on this side, and no lights showed at the back of the house, although some blazed out at the front.

      The unseen man moved stealthily towards the back door and the back windows, making very little sound. He wore dark clothes. It was nearly the end of March, and near the end of the moon’s phase. There was a high wind and scudding clouds, with stars glowing here and there, only to be hidden swiftly. The man tried the back door, and found it locked – as he had expected – and then, using a torch very cautiously, he also examined the windows. All the catches were fastened, and he made no attempt to force any one. Instead, he stood back and looked up at the first floor, and could just make out a sash-cord window open a little at the top.

      There was no sound but the wind.

      Above the doorway was a small porch.

      It was not difficult to reach up, grip the top of the porch and hoist himself upwards. His feet dangled and scratched against the brickwork, and by the time he reached the roof of the porch he was gasping for breath, but soon he knelt there quite safely, grinning as he gasped. He waited until he had recovered his breath, then stood up and found that he could reach the open window without difficulty; there was no danger of falling off unless he was very careless. He leaned a little towards the right, and pushed the window down; it moved easily. There was no light here, only greyness and strange shapes, the wind and the winning trees. He edged towards the window, until he was close enough to climb through.

      A car turned into the road, its headlights casting a great pale glow.

      The man on the porch seemed to freeze.

      The lights swayed up and down, the engine roared, and then the car reached the corner, the driver braked and swung towards the heath, travelling much faster

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